The dust remembers every drop of blood. The land is weary of the ancient strife. Once jagged stones were thrown by angry hands; Now iron monsters crawl across the dunes. The tools of death have found a sharper edge, Yet man remains a slave to old desires.
Yet from this parched and bitter soil may bloom A mind that seeks to build and not destroy. The hands that forged the sword now touch the stars, As wisdom grows to dwarf our primal fears. We rise above the ghost of ancient wars To find a peace that outlasts iron gods.