The flower of today is a wretched bitch,
but its roots grow long and deep and rich.
At their ends lie those that once bloomed,
which sunk below the land they doomed.
There the earth is hard and it's cold,
long buried beneath the mountainfold;
the bitter paradox lies whereinwhich: the virgin soil serves the wretched bitch!
'If We could abandon this misbegotten sphere,
the strength of our race would master the coldest frontier.
Time is against us, but our plans must come to pass;
let not the human seed expire, oh gods, grant us a chance!
We can't be held responsible for what We haven't done . . .
We inherited the world this way!'
'In the eyes of the cosmos, You and They are one . . .
guilty aye, but heirs? Nay!'
Now the flower won't forever last,
and those eyes can foresee it passed . . .
but ere it withers whence it came,
there beauty's lot shall be the same.
Its own devices will poison its gaze
when it looks upon its wretched ways;
pity and remorse are its fading light,
and black irony, its final sight:
'Fools of our own kind reaffirm Man's disease,
and petty divisions have brought us to our knees.
Weak and pleading, dominion's come to its end,
while the universe's wheels grind on in indifference.
Curse the stars and strides above, who see Us so forsaken!
Strength and wisdom come to naught!!'
. . . . .
'Too late You know the consequence of the liberties You've taken,
and the void of the eternity You've sought!'