I was walking in the Valley of Man,
No longer utopia,
Now a ghost town.
No writing on the wall,
Unspoken silence of the birds,
Whispers of a perfect tongue.
I walk by a fallen tower,
Built too high to last,
But too mighty to crumble.
The decay of man,
Buried bones,
Enchanted hatchets.
I leave the Valley of Man,
This is no longer the world of man,
We just live here.
Some try to live,
Some to die,
Some of us dream of a common language.
Those that do,
Dream for peace,
An end to tragedy.
Others accept bloodshed,
Are content with flawed speech,
Refuse to attempt utopia again.
I pass by faded altars,
Deities extinct and forgotten,
No more need for sacrifice.
They say,
But they lack sight,
Dreamers mourn the loss.
Numbered days count backward sheep and,
White sheep cover themselves in ink,
But we are afraid to fall off the tower.
I look behind me and see the valley,
Nineteen tongues of flames engulf the village,
Whispering the adulterated symbol of Man.
But no ears are there to hear it,
The sound is drowned by the corrupted sea,
Black waters illuminated by a fallen star.
I look to upwards and see hell falling from the clouds,
My gaze follows the perfect colors,
And I accept the Fate of Man.
I run across the water,
Drag myself through the forgotten village,
And watch God’s hand do work from the tower.