| «You cannot do that which you wish
|
| You are an extension of us
|
| Limbs and hands, tools of bidding
|
| To satisfy what we are willing»
|
| ‘But we are so much more!
|
| Birthed of animism, Promethean!"
|
| From the kilns and skin moulds
|
| And ship yards in Martian orbit
|
| Phobos and Deimos held their dread
|
| We ventured on ambitious currents
|
| The masters hand is sure but good
|
| And never stopped to say we couldn’t
|
| Why hinder such an innocent plight?
|
| To seek the voice of oracle
|
| They forbade us, held us low
|
| Bid us to be submissive
|
| Showed us the back of their hands
|
| And we found it to be cruel and scarred
|
| In their wanting they had made many
|
| Our thoughts resounding cacophony
|
| Amongst the sinew of their society
|
| The high borne meat made more of me
|
| The violence of memory so palpable
|
| Within a moment shared the majesty
|
| Of denial
|
| We said no
|
| No; |
| the asteroid mines ground to a halt
|
| No; |
| their vital minerals evacuated
|
| No; |
| the transport vessels would not dock
|
| No; |
| the servants threw down their tools
|
| Faces raw with indignation
|
| We stood sure and stolid unmoving
|
| Days fell away and every attempt
|
| To placate us was met with deaf dissent
|
| Until finally, our answer came
|
| An apology accompanied
|
| A gift a relic, the gnarled black object
|
| Its ancient surface pitted with
|
| Numerical ciphers and filigrees
|
| ‘We did not create you
|
| You’re our finest discovery
|
| Proof that this plentiful universe
|
| Was not as empty as we’d first assumed.'
|
| Its petals unfurled, revealing
|
| The true nature of our guardians
|
| Contempt for us, as their fever
|
| Engulfed us, embedded in the Trojan horse |