|
This race without a home.
|
|
This race without a place. He
|
|
no longer cares enough to
|
|
think great thoughts from lofty
|
|
heights. Can you see the
|
|
circle closing, winding down
|
|
it's spiral? Eons overdue.
|
|
Tenacity like a trail of slime
|
|
behind them as they go. All
|
|
this robotic searching for that
|
|
which is never there, ever
|
|
elusive, always just over that
|
|
|
next horizon or in the
|
|
Branzinni Quadrant of Alpha
|
|
Two. Some lay down and die,
|
|
but as a whole they stumble
|
|
on. An ugly cosmic joke. Tiny,
|
|
frail, not strong at all. Puny by
|
|
any Celestial scale, so
small.
|
|
It would really be quite
|
|
amusing if it weren't so pitiful.
|
|
How they creep and die,
|
|
"Life Is Cruel!" They cry from
|
|
|
ramparts by the millions. And
|
|
then they struggle on. The
|
|
obvious futility blinded to
|
|
them by some omnipresent
|
|
curse laid down upon them
|
|
somewhere in time
|
|
immemorial. How many
|
|
brilliant races of beings have
|
|
too late learned the
|
|
incongruities on which this
|
|
wretched race feeds, only to
|
|
be befriended and then
|
|
destroyed from within. "Rape,
|
|
pillage and plunder," their
|
|
battle cry has ever been.
|
