Should we look back now, we'd witness collapse;

we men of rubble and dust, with our spoil

of deluded industry (and perhaps

ambitions too) delving into the soil

 

of eternity's disdain. Indigo

stains the shade of our sun, and black our stars,

(by touch frictionless), contrasting the glow

that trails in their wake, marking out the scars

 

of absolution's failure (through which state

of disgrace we'd hereto sought our birthright.)

Thus falls the judgement on those men whose fate

it is to think themselves, without respite,

 

better than they are, were, could dare to be;

who undertook to speak themselves the words

of power, thinking it wisdom, to see

all that could be seen, to span the wide world's

 

seas and continents and think themselves one

with the kingdoms of nature. Such it was

with us; now all we've ever dreamed is gone,

never to return, and crudely because

 

we weren't equal to such a noble task.

Hubris claimed us, and Nemesis took us,

for having had the barefaced gall to ask

so much. At day's end, success forsook us,

 

leaving us this pile of humbled rubble.

Let not this timely lesson go to waste:

try to be prepared for any trouble

one might face; pray never to know the taste

 

of failure. Sublime knowledge could be yours,

ignoble man, as would time's victories;

it's all a question of knowing which doors

to open first; grasp hold of life's glories

 

where you may find them: these quintessential

mysteries will unlock your potential.