Posted By: UNSC Trooper<email@example.com>
Date: 22 August 2009, 4:30 pm
Grounds crack, geysers spill,
Intoxication spreads, truths kill,
Statues fall, churchly domains,
They pray and cry, our Reach remains,
So our Harvest is shattered
We march to the Fort, we're never slow!
Food grows back, it promised us,
It's not a godly rich, not Eradinos,
Comfort lacks, it always has,
No different than slimeholes of Atlas,
Tundra dries our skin, eyes shut,
We march to the Fort, not to the hut!
Arms held tight, the small and frail,
They had no chance, it was Far Isle,
Their clothes are cold, we fold them twice,
It doesn't help, they're tough as ice,
But the Fort comes close, we see it now,
The trek is over, new farms to plow,
Another chance, we ask nothing else,
A home to raise, celebration bells,
Fire meets us, this time last,
For our Fort burns, brings us to the past,
A final place to die, a final place to love,
Our home is taken, crushed from above,
Cowardice, fear holds our breath,
We march to the Fort, there is no more death!
- Oral recording of stranded farmers in 2535, gathered by Walter R. Rowland.