Illusions feed us,
May they keep us sane,
Where there’s nothing but crystals,
We project our bane.

The world in our head,
Needs a twin arm,
In the common dirt,
We find that weird bard.

It sings and it saps,
In our energy taps.
Making our body move,
Hitting the best groove.

Little hands move,
Our hearts contract,
We need to make true,
What the song, says.

Our fine prototype shall rule across the board,
Getting the gift of illusion to the whole wide world,
From sand it is made, material without shape, a good clue!
This shapeless mass will mold all of us too.

 

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