The normal way of life is such: the old give way to young. To understand does not take much, explained in simple tongue: Adults that love do procreate. Their selves they form and replicate, continuing the song which they have sung.
The first into the world are first to leave the world behind. They dry and shrivel in their thirst, are ground to dust and rind. They find their solace in their spawn, inside whose flesh they carry on their signatures, in place of their old mind.
The next await their counted turn, with shovel at the hand; enjoy the lives which must adjourn into the unseen land. Then find a mate to spawn their own, before their own flesh from the bone departs into the dryness of the sand.
Yet once upon a blood red moon, the normalcy defers. The next in line depart too soon, in snares of life's dark lures. The first must intern on the shelves of crypts the flesh that holds their selves, and taste what to the next this life confers.