Betwixt the ground and sky on a high branch of antiquity
Lives a wizened hermit looking at the ants move around below He sees all that passes for news and it does not bother him at all
For he has seen it all before and he wearies of the tedious repetition
Once he tried to intervene, but they drove him back into the clouds
And there he stays waiting for a change of days that will never come
For when attack is always the better part of defence; we reap chaos
In cycles of hatred, man walks in chains; devolving back to stardust
