Ancient wrongs done in times older than some
Minor deities have lain like festering sores
Beneath broad lakes poisoned by the dead
Things long expired under the still waters.
The autumnal air should be fresh and crisp,
Yet lies stale, as the moth musty dust smells
Of ages left rooms with too much forgotten
Detritus abandoned in darker times, fading
Much work to be done, and the game is not
Over by anyone’s guess or rumour, the task
Of me and those of mine yet to come is
A thankless one at first, reward being its own
In the doing of the thing, not yet grown.