The Tomb
A Graveyard appears a desolate waste, In which hope should have no place.
Lost are the souls of men,
When death’s hand extends.
The growth enjoyed of mind and soul,
Is now put down into a hole.
Forever gone we know not where,
Seemingly, without a care.
There is a creature that builds a tomb, Being ensnared by its own weavers loom.
The caterpillar appears lost to life, But is transforming with great strife.
There are men above the soil,
That life has filled with great turmoil.
They live ensnared in a tomb, Not seeing it may be a womb.
They pass through a time of death, Even though their heart beats yet.
They lie within a darkened grave, Believing they cannot be saved.
A new creature is born,
In all souls which are forlorn.
Curruption purged by sorrows sting, The purified heart grows its wings.
When the time of pain is past,
These wings will spread at last.
The grave is not an end, But a place of birth again.
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