Walk gently through these meadows,
do not disturb that which shouldn't be woken,
that which the gods struggled to put to rest.
They hold stories your grandfather tried to tell
with trembling hands and twitching eyes,
but you rendered them fiction,
even when they were digging holes beneath your feet.
The scent of the undead seeps through the grass,
and you'd think green shouldn't smell like rotting flesh;

Walk gently through these meadows,
hold on to dear life,
or better yet,
don't walk at all.