Six thousand, seven hundred, sixty six years

when last your light had graced our skies
you looked at us. You heaved your sighs
at pains, and pangs, and scrabbling hands,
as we, whip-bled, marched across the sands
and burned, and put some towns to axe,
and discovered great and graver acts.

and now, so many years have passed
the deserts grown and some made glass;
when you turn your eye to me,
do you still sigh at what you see?

 

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