Horsemen

The siblings meant to end the world.

Famine is born among the frost, when trees are bare and the ground is frozen. Stomachs go concave and famine manifests with skin stretched over stark ribs. The babe will carry the arid frost for all of his life, sunk into his bones. There is no warmth for him at the hearth.

Pestilence emerges from mud. To the song of frog croaks, Pestilence comes into being with crust on their eyes, a thick layer of miasma keeping their mouth shut. It’s a while before they cry, but when they do, they are grabbed up just the same.

War is born on the grass. Not soft and pillowy, but trodden by thousands of boots and bodies into an unforgiving state. From the harsh ground, the horseman has back pain from birth. A dull, continual thud throughout their muscles like the beats of a battle.

Death’s birth is among the most expected. On the first graveyard, black eyes spring open. A raven caws a welcome to the babe who will be there for everyone, and thus never be alone.

The fifth is stillborn, for it had a chance, a blip of existence early on in the world. Apathy was born in the absence, in neglect, in the gazes that turn away. Too soon for the babe did Men prove that this horseman was an error. In soft touches, in warm lullabies, in protests and raised voices, the babe is born already taken back.