All my life, I tilled these fields—
hands cracked with calluses,
proof of devotion written in blood and sweat.
My crops, my livestock, my own flesh and blood—
none mattered as much as my shrine.
Tubero, Goddess of Bounty—
her name carved into sacrifices,
into the gold statue at my shrine’s heart,
surrounded by fruits, flowers, braided hair,
offerings piled high as my faith.
I would have died for her.
*Or so I believed.*
Winter came. Winter left.
Yet its hunger lingered.
I knelt before her.
I *prayed*.
Prayed until my voice frayed,
until my knees wore grooves into stone.
But the earth stayed barren.
The livestock bore no young.
My family starved.
On my last day, I crawled—
nails splintering on stone—
dragging myself to her feet.
“Why?” I screamed.
“Have I not given enough?”
“Have I not bled faith for you?”
The gold face watched, unmoved.
Cold. Silent.
My breath faded.
My body stiffened.
Years later, travelers found my bones—
a skeleton still clasped in prayer.
They pitied me.
Called me a fool.
“Look,” they whispered,
“a man who died begging a goddess of lies.”
My tragedy became their tale.
Yet my corpse remained,
fingers curled in hope,
as if waiting—
for the blessing
that never came.
And so I am remembered:
The Foolish Saint.
And she—
Tubero, the Goddess of Empty Promises.
The Stones Bleed Like Me 