Sunrise on the Reaping

The sky is blood, the dawn burns bright,

A silent town wakes bathed in light.

Footsteps echo, cold and slow,

As names are called, as fates bestow.

A mother clutches, eyes gone wide,

Her trembling hands, her shattered pride.

A father’s voice, a whispered plea,

But fate is deaf, it lets them be.

A child steps forth with steady grace,

Fear and fire on their face.

The reaping comes, the blade is drawn,

A game of death, a race till dawn.

The golden fields are cut too soon,

Not by scythe but crueler doom.

A future stolen, a past erased,

A name now lost, a soul displaced.

The crowd stands still, the choice is made,

A tribute walks into the shade.

Yet in their eyes, a storm remains,

A spark that flickers through the chains.

For even when the night is deep,

When sorrow digs its roots so steep,

The dawn still rises, bold and bright,

To forge a path, to bring the fight.

Let them fear the sun’s cruel gleam,

For embers stir beneath the dream.

And though the reaping claims its own,

The seeds of change have long been sown.