They are not hopeless, many of them, but they are fallen.
They are not malformed, though twisted and tortured, but they have forgotten their birthright.
They are not fakes, not all of them, but they are failures.
The warrior rages against the darkness, striking out against any shadow.
The priest struggles to bring meaning to a confusing chaos mixed with darkness and maybe distant light.
The prince, born to the top of the heap, sleeps restlessly, watching jealous contenders.
The physician digs into his bag of herbs and potions, does his best, and watches death march on.
The peasant, not rich, not read, not privileged, simply struggles along, doing what he must, what he can.
Our eyes, they have blinded with their brimstone fire. Our ears they have deafened with their hellish racket. Our wings, they have snatched away.
Where are You?!
Do not forsake us!
Come down upon the mountain with blazing power.
Speak quietly to our hearts.
Save us.
Carry home your crippled beloved.
They are not malformed, though twisted and tortured, but they have forgotten their birthright.
They are not fakes, not all of them, but they are failures.
The warrior rages against the darkness, striking out against any shadow.
The priest struggles to bring meaning to a confusing chaos mixed with darkness and maybe distant light.
The prince, born to the top of the heap, sleeps restlessly, watching jealous contenders.
The physician digs into his bag of herbs and potions, does his best, and watches death march on.
The peasant, not rich, not read, not privileged, simply struggles along, doing what he must, what he can.
Our eyes, they have blinded with their brimstone fire. Our ears they have deafened with their hellish racket. Our wings, they have snatched away.
Do not forsake us!
Come down upon the mountain with blazing power.
Speak quietly to our hearts.
Save us.
Carry home your crippled beloved.
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