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• Artiste: Ancient At Birth
• Titre: The Uncreated
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This tale never did take place Call it metaphor if you must Though its landmarks all exist to seek In fact, you might even find them And the archetypes it brings to light Have always screamed to be unearthed Its characters, all fiction Only the gods are real Gods are harder to destroy than men But when they die, they die un-mourned And the innocent eternal to the ancient at birth Illuminate insects and suns As societys vestiges await their decay Its new gods cling to life As hastily abandoned as at first they once were embraced The unbirthed, not spared from death Modern man was never free from primitive ways of old Sacrifices, toils, worships, bows before his uncreated Cultural advances but elaborate a single theme Forging nothing new, but recreating the uncreated Every thought, paradigm, mental facet, yes, and even god The result of evolution, ancient as the primative early mind In dreams, in nightmares in particular, man sees such artistic, complex actuality A world of events in unexpected detail, I swear that even Dostoyevsky himself could not have created it I hang from the ash, body bound, side pierced Icy rain crawls down my skin The wind, dirt, and living beings whisper defeat Forgotten gods cry victory To comprehend life, you must embrace death For what the dead, in their silence know To understand the unquestioned visions of which life consists Seek not new landscapes, seek new eyes