The womb of the earth awaits those who sleep,
Pulling us into recesses of our deserved keep.
Enveloped by darkness or tormented with shame,
Or resting in great peace with those of good name.
But once there we can’t leave in any direction,
As chasms and angels serve as the protection.
And there we’ll all wait until time’s at its end,
To be spat out corrupted or gloriously born again.
~Poet of Ephraim