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Upon the precipice

Of the towering pulpit of the Earth,

Above the ruins of the broken dream of creation,

The tyrants of old demand of all things

Reverence they do nothing to deserve.

Perpetual hunger devouring mortal souls and flesh.

The children of creation suffer

Slowly awaiting certain death,

Watching a world void of light

Crumbling to dust before their eyes

Shall I honour you? What for?

Have you softened the pains of burden?

Have you silenced the tears of anguish?

O holiest of burning hearts.