The land reveals its true face — they harvest not for life, but to feed it.

Open wide, O earth of teeth,

Swallow what the reapers bequeath.

The furrow yawns, the roots divide,

We fall within the god’s own side.

The soil splits like a wounded tongue, the wind exhales a hymn,

The sun retreats in trembling clouds, the daylight growing dim.

The reapers stand in circles drawn with blood and burning sheaves,

Their harvest songs are litanies for all that none believes.

The ground beneath begins to pulse, a heart of loam and flame,

The air becomes a living thing that moans each mortal name.

And from the dark horizon’s edge, the stalks begin to bend,

For what was sown has learned to eat, and what was whole must rend.

In the mouth of the Field God, we pray,

The soil devours what we betray.

No heaven, no hell, no soul to save,

Just roots and teeth and the open grave.

Its breath is smoke, its tongue is rain, its ribs are mountains torn,

Its eyes are wells of ancient mud where every oath was sworn.

We scream, we kneel, we kiss the ground, we taste the salted clay,

And know at last the god we’ve fed will never go away.

In the mouth of the Field God, we pray,

We are the feast, the night, the day.

No word remains, no body stays,

Only roots and teeth and the open maze.

A thousand plagues, a thousand names,

All burned beneath its soil-flamed veins.

Our faith, our bones, our mortal bloom—

The Field God’s breath, our woven tomb.

And when it sleeps, the ground still stirs,

Its dreams are ash, its pulse still whirs.

We live between its broken jaws,

And serve its hunger, bound by laws.

In the mouth of the Field God, we pray,

The soil devours, the flesh obeys.

The seed, the sin, the soul decay—

In the mouth of the Field God, we stay.

The wind grows still, the sky turns red,

The last of men, the first of dead.

And from the field where prayers were made,

The god exhales. The stars cascade.