His fingers have grown crooked and unusable
The tea cup impossible to hold without two hands
He likens his own state to the once beautiful and most loved lands
The trees on the mountain god have grown without care and concern
At one time the road leading to the sea smelled of jasmine and evergreens

There is no more worship in the great temple dedicated to the great gods so long ago
The rebels trample on their own forefathers as if they spit on their very souls
The old one fear for their lives and for their memories of all that could have been

In the back room he holds on to what little could be saved
There are rumors of departure just as their ancestors once embarked
Where will they go, the ones who desire freedom from chaos and immorality?

He is too old and frail to travel the stars but his creations will last eternity
He stares again at his very hands, how wonderful the ability to create beauty
There are others who use their hands to destroy and wreck

He pities those who cannot see what lies ahead fighting among themselves
Destroying our gods
That was no one’s plans