When in hell, he gazed on her corruption and fled,
it set the course for their eternity.
She the first goddess from which all things were born,
He the first god, who invited her, and then turned to scorn,
were now divided, divided by that figure cold who calls on us.
They did see his face, and his name was death.
When so he fled, the first god, and tossed behind him life and bitter fruit,
when he fleed from deep world, at mountains root,
She, flesh peeled from her bone, and eaten from sinew,
raged and demanded, the ransom of ages.
He, laughed, scoffing, his seed would be spilled,
he would raise up at least two, for each that she killed.
The fuel of her fury did have place, and his name was death.
The bodies that wash up from ravenous seas,
the corpses that languish among forgotten trees,
the bones that bake in Euphrates sun,
have bleached there millenia, since our world was begun.
With each mausoleum, with each new high tower,
with each great cathedral, with its gloom and its glower,
with each mighty mosque, or spiralling stair,
with each spire raised, as if hands clasped in prayer,
with each monument, with each book that's written,
it is life that we chase, though it is with him we are smitten.
We cannot stop, we cannot rest,
driven by deep biology's behest.
Our real seed my spill, and die on the ground,
our eggs may they shrivel, and scatter around.
But in future perhaps our legacy found,
by the light that we sent, as a probe to that plane
where all that once was, will be once again.
But there he will stand over, and mock all your pains,
shatter your dreams, and squander you gains.
Walk to the edge of sanity's breadth
and you will find him there smiling,
and his name is death.