The vessels we built for our masters Made of wood from our ancient forest But my grandmother used to tell us Each tree's

The things you control (Neither big nor the small) Are your divine wings The thoughts you produce  A chimera of the greats  Neither yours nor

We're assured we are infinite Though with mystic brevity We think we may be endless Through power, fame, longevity Maybe in our wildest

Nights may be dark And days may be bright But something about them Not quite right The home will be empty With only me inside