I was born with this
These memories are mine
Woe to the covetous
These bones are a weight
Pen to page prayers from the priests
All these numbers impede progress
Your formulas will fail you
Your limiting laws comfort
The weak willed masses will pray that their angles will save them
May the freeze keep thee for Hypnos has forsaken his flock
Roll the stone away so that the living may seek the dead
I’m just the gardener, your gifts will but burn on the pyre
A hymn to Gravity may She smile upon my efforts
This temple begs to be rebuilt
By the marrow might we make gold
When will the chariots return
My sword is drawn in anticipation
How can you be so young but look so old
Your rituals are brittle
May Apophis consume thee
Baby bird, Nuit will teach you to fly
CMH
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