There is a man
He has a plan;
And his plan is simple.
To put together all his might
Rob himself of his life;
And do it all with a sickle

For he is a farmer
But never a charmer;
And his tools and talent amount to nil.
People call him cretin, cross
In a mine of crystals, a minor moss;
And so he has had his fill.

He has his neck on the blade
All prices will be paid;
And he now cares for none.
Not his sister, nor his mother
All can burn, all can smother;
Still he is not yet done.

For out of the sky
Up, up and high;
Comes a voice like no other.
“If you give up
And you feel drub;
You, friend, need look no further.”

Says the voice, the voice that is mine
“O you shall find a way to shine”;
But the man trusts me not.
For him it is a stranger voice
For him it is no matter of choice;
The voice means naught, it can go and rot.

“O stop now,” I say
The man begins to pray;
He knows naught but pain and tears, he cannot be swayed.
I try, though still, I try
The man begins to cry;
He knows naught but pain and tears, I do my best to persuade.

Yet a bloodied sickle falls in front of my eyes
To myself O Holder I pry:
“What good are you?
What's your use and purpose?
You and the Jen, cry out aloud to curse us;”
But the man is gone, forever gone
And I can do but move on
Towards, what hope mine says, is a brighter dawn.

Allegory is really quite wonderful at times.