To an archaic rhythm the veins tremor.
Made of stone. Made of glass.
Slave to no remorse nor terror.
Purpose to endure to the last.
It knows what is it to be nothing.
Gone from here. Lost one step near.
Savor the searing sting.
The pain of those who perservere.
Wander the roads of time.
With hardened cast and calloused feet.
For days in the dark you climb.
Blind to tire, confusion or defeat.
Keep up with the fast pace of man.
Drag your spear through the fine white sand.
A line that draws from whence time began.