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The Ancestors

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You are made of dead things
from long, long ago.
They crawled in dark spaces,
struggling without reason,
suffering through ignorance and starvation,
so that you might, someday, be.
In the primordial world
of unspoken things
and emotionless life,
we began ourselves.
We are nothing
but otherworldly mud,
pieces of elemental nonsense,
let fly as if by some great force
into an undefined target.
Elevated worth,
mindless emotions, uncontrolled;
we have shamed our lifeless ancestors.
Dying as we are,
is it our fate
to begin something here?
In countless years,
will descendants speak of us
as ignorant, mindless, ancient sufferers?
What is left of shame
in so many thousands of endless years?
We walk in dark places,
and suffer our way
into some unknown target.
Primordial siblings,
where are we going?



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