The Tribe of the Sphere
Desolate and barren are these "Golden Plains"
This desert abyss is arid, here they know no rain.
The sky grows dark amidst the dusken clouds
looming high over the arcs herein thus renowned:
Revered as gods by the people local,
Spheres of Water - here they're cheerful, hopeful
for they draw of their savior, azure, a mirror of opal
The last remnants of a society long forgotten
Mankind but with no songs or even talking
They speak in grunts, the language of apes
though they bear the bodies and they brandish the face
they as savages raised in the sands of the plain.
They call out as they enter the dome, cavernous, grand
echos rise o'er the steps of the stone with their hands gripping pans
that dip into the water, nigh entranced as they stand
Reflections, a grunt in reply! The gods must be listening and this their sustenant prize.
They know not wisdom, all which was lost with their parents
Orphans, abandoned, naught was taught in abearance
Wars of the past wrought and tossed in their terrors
lead by instinct alone, they're lawless and feral.
"Pump Station 23" Emblazoned, exterior
One paces at its peak in wait, growing nearer
they'd captured another, she strains but so weary
Writhing in chains, she's raised amid cheering
A man with painted face and a drape of feathers
takes her fetters and prays he'd accept her
The feathered man let out a guttural cry -
wraps his hand round her shoulder and nudges her thigh
she falls from the side, screaming, no more than a thud as she dies.
They cheered, none were wondering why for this fate is the same for anyone who defies.