By the light of the harvest moon, beware,
For shadows will stir in the chilling air.
The harvest moon rose, a crimson sphere,
Bringing whispers no mortal should hear.
Beneath its glow, the fields turned red,
And crops grew strange in the farmer’s stead.
The villagers whispered of ancient lore,
A curse tied to the moon of yore.
Long ago, in a time forgot,
A pact was made on this very plot.
The soil was rich, the harvest great,
But the price was set: a dire fate.
Each cycle when the red moon shone,
A soul was claimed, left to moan.
One autumn night, as the moon did rise,
A wanderer came with weary eyes.
He sought no harm, just a place to rest,
Unaware of the village’s cursed jest.
The villagers watched with bated breath,
As the moon’s curse marked its next death.
The stranger slept, but the shadows crept,
And a sinister wind through the window swept.
In his dreams, he saw the field alive,
With writhing roots and vines that thrive.
They spoke in tones both deep and grim,
“We hunger, wanderer; come to us, him.”
He awoke to find his room aglow,
With the moonlight casting a ghastly show.
The walls pulsed like a living thing,
And distant howls began to ring.
Drawn outside by an unseen force,
He walked the path of the cursed course.
The villagers watched, their hearts turned cold,
As the prophecy, yet again, took hold.
The fields consumed him, body and soul,
Leaving naught but the echoes of their goal.
The soil grew rich, the crops stood tall,
And the moon’s curse was appeased for all.
So when the harvest moon casts its hue,
And shadows stretch in the evening dew,
Lock your doors, heed this rhyme,
For the curse returns with every time.