One of three,
the elder race,
are you happy,
in this place?
Was it how,
you were born,
into this world,
broken and torn
as the men blew,
the war’s horn?
Or did you come
to love’s embrace,
to hide from us,
your eternal face?
Was it your choice,
to be scorned,
ripped from time,
by the hallow formed?
Did it call to you,
god-like, unarmed?
Tell me now,
my love be warmed.
Is it you alone,
that lit the fires,
of earth and men,
and hatred’s pyres?
Was it the other two,
of your station,
that then flew,
from Earth’s libations?
I listen, hear,
but with fear,
for a dying breath,
of my only dear.
Always to learn,
never to steer,
though I wish
with all my tears.
Gentle three,
the elder race,
what have you done,
to this place?
We’ve no more food,
left to brood,
with bloody death,
our only mood.
What compulsion,
of yours awaits?
Fulfillment from torture?
Our only fates?
One of three,
the elder race,
you’ve known nothing,
but your place.
So here is man,
in his own space,
leave us be,
return to grace.
Wordsmith of Sol 