Like exiles we are,
borne into paradise never lost;
Never attained.
Banished from one life
Into the next,
and again.

The past is a story we tell ourselves,
And man is the sum of his tales.
A doleful spectacle, a tragedy on display.
A story written in blood.

Hear you not the prayers of pious men!
And feel you not their soothing balms!
For it is their cure that is the poison,
emptying us of terror profound.
Celestial apprehension, a path to self-creation.

Sol was then made god above
And man the servile slave at its whip.
A neglectful father, a mother destitute.
And it fled beyond the horizon.

Banishing man to the dark,
Cast out into the arms of Abaddon,
(Such as we are, thou shalt be.)
Appalled and destitute,
He could but pray for his curse to be lifted,
Or wait for dark to become him.
(Such as we are, thou shalt be.)

Like exiles they are,
Locked in pursuit neverending;
Never resolved.
Chased from the heavens
And cast down below,
And again.

As night ate the day, so day ate the night away.
Delivered from twilight,
The dawn would see man return to the surface,
To worship his mortal god.

The past is a story we tell ourselves,
And man is the sum of his tales.
A doleful spectacle, a tragedy on display.
A story of submission.

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