Time has no memory, we can never go back,
Only forward, ever onward in some hoary battle cry.
Our ancients bridged no aeons and could never see
The blood drenched mausoleum we have stillborn.
Is there truly no way back for us?
No answer but the smile of the Sphinx;
Should we yearn for our Gods? Are our sacrifices theirs?
Or when He fell, did we all fall, answerless forever?
We make our plans and confound them with our immediacy
The broken stones of ancient palaces collapsed therein.
A stuttered code that reached us and we mistook
For the surety of absolute progress.
So now we stretch trembling hands toward the idol,
Its greenstick bones puncture the skin, hand-holds to knowledge.
And we shamble, broken and alone in our universe
Striving for a rebirth that can never be.