That twisted thing that crawled its way out of the cold soil last night; I cradled and took it in. I always do. It wasn't the first and it shan't be the last of its earthen ilk. They only come out on the cusp of each new moon. I sit and wait patiently for them to break free of the tortured surface. Often they resist my hand but I pay their survival instincts no heed. I know what is best for them. Either they accept my assistance on the eve of this painful birth, or they perish from apathy and indifference. It's as simple as that. In the end, it's up to them.
For the ones unwilling to accept my guidance, they are soon reburied neatly in a row, down in the valley. Their fearful cries and final protests do not haunt me. I shall not mourn their unfortunate passing. They have returned to the darkened abyss from whence they came. Instead, I await the arrival of their future siblings.
These mindless souls call out to me. They seek a benevolent mercy. They all crave a fulfilling existence above ground and I endeavor to give it to them. Either directly through a natural lifespan, or from the eternal process of reproduction and rebirth. Regardless, they eventually feel the cold, faithful embrace of darkness on their decaying flesh. We all do. It is an unbreakable cycle.
On the very next moon, another hatchling rises up through the musty soil and I am there to greet it. Some cleave to these efforts. Others yearn for true independence. I must break their willful, wanton ways if they are to survive until the next harvest. It is my sworn duty. My chosen vocation. I'm a farmer of the twisted sprouts that disturb the fertile earth.