She was drawn here by her own reflection.
Blinding her will to the dangers of youth,
Forced to ripen to early,
And harvest too soon.
It never grows back when you cut up the roots.

Stripped from their stalks,
The wheat and the barley fill up their barrels right to the brim.
Some tumble off,
Back to the earth,
Under the shadow of the harvester's curse.

The crops that are torn up from the soil
Are carried through pastures they've never seen.
Up to the village,
High above the cornfields.
Always in sight, but never believed.

There in the town, the villagers sing
Anthems they've heard in a vague memory.
Perhaps from their childhood,
Perhaps from a dream they had years ago
In the deepest of sleeps.

So parents of the world, be patient with your children.
Brothers, your sisters are facing the cold.
And daughter, the son is having trouble breathing.
Let them sleep a little longer.