A cold wind blows through the temple at the edge of eternity,The gods gather in haste and gaze at the garden they have made
A place they had nurtured so lovingly, the place they now despise
On the wind, is a hint of change, there must be hope after all.
The artist stands poised to make another orb from the modelling clay
But first he must gather together all he has made
An existence to fade in the blink of his eye
He knows not what his play did make.
Somewhere, a winged horse holds its breath
And the touch of fear ruffles its white mane
It was there right at the start; one of the first to dance, and prance and play there
It is sad the field will be lost
Out in the blackness around the casual design, the ungoldy laugh
For they too tire of the masquerade
Their interest in the game is fading like the petulant infants they be
Waiting for the next nursery in which to reap their havoc
For the gods, patience is at an end
The clay has become a worthless ornament on their mantlepiece
The energy there to be transformed, that is their wish
But first their ambassadors have to make their return ...
And from out of the clay spring forth tiny pricks of light
Angelic beings in flight fill their minds
They laugh ... for they see what the children of the field comprehend
Their ambassadors seen as gods, as saviours, as flying man-things.
And the godly laugh becomes a deafening roar
Above the field thunder rolls
And as more flying beings return, the threat of the cold wind grows stronger
And the artist moves its hand closer to the modelling clay
Surely all memories of the fall, and the subsequent quest are doomed to be forgotten?