What truths, darkly, driving like nails
into the box, with
signed fate, sealed and delivered;
Ah, what truths shall come, and pass!

Fortune, weary at her wheel, weaving wonders unseen
for times that fade on other planes,
whilst endlessly we toil,
scraping meaning from salted soil.

Unearthed! At last!
Old treasures sought, which rise again, to live. And
with each incarnation, her hands torn to the bone,
she must carry on,
so that the thread
may reach the loom.




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