"I'm the first place you'll leave,"
  she said to me in earnest,
"The best time to go is now
  when my resolve is at its firmest."

Her body seemed to be shaking
  and I without reason was borne
painfully by her on the harvest
  into the season of corn.

The orange moon was overfull
  and hanging his low head in shame,
said to the stars, "I cannot watch
  the fields enduring this pain."

"The sound of the stalks,
  the shearing the reaping,
the sound when they snap,
  to me is like weeping."

The stars smiled and replied
  to the moon, "You are young
this is the cycle,
  this is the course that life runs."

The moon cried and said,
  "Then I can not bear it.
I will not watch another
  child ripped from its parent."

And so the moon turned black
  and hid his face from the sun.
We all look away when
  wicked deeds must be done.