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(begins with part 1)

Though some say the tribal council foresaw the next event.
The disappearance of all the seers,
and as they went,
the people looked up with fear;

Finally the last one had gone,
along with the illumination of our paths.
And so, as we waited for the fires to once more dawn,
we again silently suffered from the coastal Rocks’ wrath;

But when word spread that gilded beacon lit no more,
greed overtook our brothers, as they decided on a change of plans.
They attacked us and razed our sacred lore,
building lighthouse others, these, of human hands;

Only, as mighty as it would be made,
however tall the tower,
no matter how many bricks would be laid,
it was no suitable substitute in power;

Frustrated, they then tried to rationalize and disprove the old towers greatness.
And upon hearing our moral gems, they would mock.
Calculating through their path without a real reasonable guess.
Their arrogance sunk them, as they became Rock;

And as friendly nations turned against us in a collective,
we felt the cold hand of civil unrest.
Our enemies took our people captive,
as our people did also oppress;

Many people made their own sect,
and blood was spilled by these cults.
Monuments to themselves, the leaders erect.
As foot soldiers are swept up in tumult;

Our tribe finally splintered,
and to this day the sects still track us as prey.
We are some of the last fundamentalists yet to be conquered,
which I am thankful for everytime I pray;’
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He then tensed and pierced me with heavy eyes.

I’ve seen many of my friends hunted down,
and yet I’ve never picked up a soldiers armor.
The only clothes I wear are a priests’ gown
and ritual vestments while at the altar.

Life has indeed given me the chance to make riches,
I thank the opportunity, but always decline.
I think I’ve found where my niche is,
every Sunday, preaching divine.

I could have been wild,
in my younger days.
But perhaps its good and mild,
that can see through the haze.

But everytime I see that golden spire,
I ignite inside with holy fire.
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