Requiem for tortured souls

*processional dirge* Brothers and sisters, the bright warmth of summer stands gloomy, cold and damning before us. Whilst our neighbors, our friends, our kin celebrate the harvest, feast, drink, and are fattened, we shall waste away, like a field untended. Our purpose removed, our souls set to restless nothings, we shall wander the earth like cursed dead. Our heads shall carry no thought, and our hearts hold no song. Lo, in the land of our tribe, our music shall not be played, nor shall our people gather, chant, and bring war upon the neighboring tribes. The coliseum will see no games. And this shall not be a passing thing! No! For many months, our warriors shall slumber! For countless days the beer will not flow! It will indeed be a sad time. Fear not, for we shall not be tortured. How can you torture that which does not feel? Fear not, for we shall not be subverted or put to labor against our will. That which does not think, but only dreams, has no will to subvert. He who has nothing joyful with which to fill his time cannot waste it on other tasks, but simply use it up. And even so, the suffering will be great. I think it would be better to be dead than this waking, walking death of the coming summer. Already the memory of what drives us fades away. And so let us spell ourselves, steel ourselves from want, and steal away from nothingness. Let us put ourselves to rest until our trial is over. A Requiem: Oh Lord, thy name is Yost, thy name is Crisler, thy name is Bo. Grant us peace and a quickening of time. Grant us a restful slumber, until the month of your returning. Grant us dreams, skin of swines and the crossing of lines. Grant us Touchdowns in our dreams. Grant us a swift passing through the desolate times. A-men.