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.