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- 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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