When we are born, we are bloody and warm

Our souls, they are fresh, our tales, still untold

Our new flesh is theirs, to cut, shape and form

Then, when we die, we are bloody and cold.

Our life is for blood, to spill and to dry

To hurt is to live, to bleed is to pray

Our worship is raw, to live is to die

If they see it fit, to rest we will lay

For birth or for death, our hearts they have yearned

In tandem, they live, in league they must work

A partnership great, divinity earned

A life without death is dark and is murk

An Ancient one of blood, lust, and of life

To live without hurt, to live within strife