We fancy ourselves the world’s anointed architects,
Drafting dominion on a self-righteous scroll—
The earth, pliant clay shaped by hands that count defects,
All else, imperfect, needing our control.

This tale: that life was made for human hands,
That mountains, rivers, wolves, and skies exist
As mere tools to serve our vast, expanding plans—
We crown ourselves creation’s ultimate alchemist;
Heirs ordained to conquer, own, command,
On thrones of myth we cannot resist.

But who decreed this manifest design?
What god inscribed dominion in our bones?
We chase salvation’s ever-fading sign,
While trampling covenants the earth once owned:
The law that bound the fox, the tree, the bee—
To live in kinship, never to rule alone.

Our zeal to “fix” the world we’ve torn apart
Reveals the wound we cannot name aloud:
The Taker’s myth still beating in the human heart—
That nature’s chaos, unbound and proud,
Awaits human order to shape human art,
To bind the wild and force the world to bow.

We seek the cure in engines, walls, and scheming,
In grids of steel where wilderness once flowed,
Yet miss the truth inside the leopard’s eyes gleaming—
No single heart commands the gifts the earth bestowed.
The world needs no redeemer’s frantic screaming—
In fact, it needs the weight of our illusions slowed.

The cage we built for “beasts” now locks us in:
Its bars are myths of human destiny and right.
True hope stirs when we cast off the sin
Of separation, and see wisely with insight
That earth was never something we could win,
But true kinship waits in earth’s returning light.

To shed mankind’s blindfold is to start:
To hear the wind not as a foe to tame,
But as a breath from the same living art
That shaped the wolf, the soil, the comet’s flame.
The world asks not for rescuers, but for the heart
That takes its place as kin, and makes no claim.

We sought to script the world, but the ink runs dry—
Our stories fade where skeletal trees meet the sky.
Silence gathers in the questions left to die,
A fate we seem determined never to outrun.
Creation waits, indifferent to our final cry—
Its law: extinction comes for those who believe they’ve won.