| 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. |
