Harvest was but days ascending upon thoughts,
It wasn't long till all were called forth, each of age
Helped out. Birth age was a right in this time.

We counted on the calendar as each night fell a
Dawn drew ever closer near. it beckoned those, most
Excepted sombre times, tears did gracefully fall.

Accountable to the masses as times before, has this
Been set in lore, in legend of the before,  not breathed.
But ages grow fearful of the approaching present.

It hung low as if bleeding upon the landscape, It
beckoned the time of offering of moments when
Each pride was offering a cull of silent young.

They took the offering as every time, we wept
Anguished tears, but all was falsehood of past
Blood moon thanking's we weren't taken ourselves.

Three thousand and sixty five moments will the night
Grace the sky. And many blood moons shall call not
Taking mine, till that moment we will temp our time.