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| Down through the days, and |
|
| dawns, and depths of time | |
| came They, the race of Man. | |
| Fighting, struggling, striving | |
| up out of the Primordial Ooze. | |
| Grasping blindly at what they | |
| think of as their pinnacle. | |
| Futile. Harboring always in | |
| their deepest of instincts, that | |
| longing to return. To go back |
|
to the slime from whence |
| they'd come. To cease this | |
| senseless effort. To rest the | |
| weary bones in the soul of | |
| their oh so tired race. Old are | |
| they now, and like a star the | |
| spark of life within them ebbs. | |
| Remembered now by none at | |
| all lies the epic past, when on | |
| one lonely world their race | |
| was born. No fan fare there, | |
| the battle had begun. The Evil |
| Enemy Entropy wreaking |
|
| havoc out amongst them. | |
| All their great works it is | |
| destined to destroy, never will | |
| they themselves last long | |
| enough to see what comes | |
| after their own additions to | |
| the Cause and Effect. Man's | |
| numbers now are few, small | |
| bands of wandering nomads, | |
| lost and alone, near to |
|
soulless in the blacks of time |
| and space. Brigands, pirates, | |
| cut-throats, thieves. All these | |
| wandering trades. Bards and | |
| minstrels, acrobats, players. | |
| These and more. "Where are | |
| the great minds?" ask you? | |
| "They're gone." says I, "they | |
| are no more". Long past has | |
| ended that cycle in this tired, | |
| wretched race. |
