When the end comes I will fall to the ground where the war horses have trampled down the earth, where the embers still smolder and burn, where slain heroes lay broken and dying. I will fall to this barren ground and I will not rise again. My blood will turn the soil dark and rich, and from it sweet grass will grow. The rain will come and rust my armor away to flake and dust. The flesh will melt from my palms, my cheeks, my chest. The Sun will bleach my smooth bare bones white. The prairie grass will reach up about my legs; the vines will wind between my ribs. The poppies will coil themselves around my fingers and blossom up through my eyes and gapping jaw. The seasons will pass and slowly bury me beneath the land, another anonymous, forgotten hero returned to the silent earth.

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