The reapers, death itself, those in black robes with scythes in hand, taking the souls of those past. Nothing can stop them, not money nor fame, they are death itself. In their path lay only misery, heartache, and loneliness.

Those left alive, mourn, knowing that their loved ones are to never return again. Drums sound, cries of mourning sound to the heavens above. The buzzards fly above, swooping down to pick at easy meals, while crows caw at the passing.

Those left behind must live on, push through the pain. They must remember what has happened and learn, so death does not come through again to reap the sons, daughters, mothers and fathers in such a way.

War based on reasons of race, religion, ethnicity, or anything else, brings the reapers out, and gives them delight. When the children of Earth learn to put things aside, learn that no one will think identically as themselves, only then can we grow, learn and prosper. Only then will the reapers cease to make frequent trips, and only then will the reapers know we have learned our lesson.

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