The origin of species

In the night of time,
in a deep, dark void,
begins the tale
of the world’s first dawn.
An ancient story,
primal and old,
of instinct and rage,
fierce and untold.
Driven away, landless sons,
they dreamed of peace
and war was born.
It was not envy, nor was it spite,
but ancient hate
that would not die.
The blood was spilled,
no voice replied.
A silent cry
beneath the sky.
And so it goes, the ancient rite:
a war that burns
without respite.
The promised land?
A lost illusion.
A distant God,
in self-seclusion.
We walk like shadows,
bent and worn,
on soil of blood,
by sorrow torn.
Still seeking signs
that you were there
in the endless space
of your nowhere.