Slaving away – crafting and molding –
The old creator sits silently sculpting,
A skilled master of his craft.
But in flows a cold draft:
A memory that haunts,
Together, with the fire, it taunts.
He knows the justice will come
For he lies within the atrium
Between guilt and innocence,
His hands he cannot rinse.
The deed was sound,
But he knows he will be bound:
Theft of that which ought to be shared,
For valiance he will be marred.
The craftsman breathes in the omen,
Awaits retribution for altruistic sin,
And returns to his project,
Searching for any defect,
Any mistake or element forgotten.
Before completion he is taken –
He fights – not in opposition,
But in support of his creation,
For it is not yet whole:
The figure contains no soul.
This animate empty shell
To an adverse earth it fell,
Knocked over in the arrest
As the creator screams his best.
Shot from the sky, as if fired from a gun –
A crash – and it slams into the ocean.
The man with no soul, the heart with no voice
This is Luno – life is now his choice.
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