Primordial

the crippled oracle breathes his lungs like grit
his blackened hands, like maps of ungodly lands
skin as leather, burnt by the sun
this world is not for him
this world is not for you nor I
when the gods where young the burden was less
it was not grief and it was not fear
who cast the shadow upon our age?
who has crippled the young and blinded their eyes
he counts the hours, days and awful years
to when the children stare into the sun
the mountains crumble to the sea
and our civilisations turn to dust
they are turned to dust
so slumber watcher, till the spheres
have turned ten and twenty thousand years
the crippled oracle breathes, his lungs like grit
this world is not for him
this world is not for you nor I