What our ancestors were trying to tell us

Pretty much most of what they call history is a tissue of lies
And all that remains true are the stars in the skies.

Not even the greatest cataclysm on Earth
Could make these starships slip their moorings,
Nor cause their navigators to lose their bearings
Along the voyage of the hero, from his stable birth.

So a nautical chart was drawn on this vast canvas,
In dots of silver ink, shining in the obsidian blackness.

It was a work of genius: these master mariners
Charted the whirlpools, the sirens, the sea serpents …
All trials we heroes meet on our way to the last judgement
And being reborn, finally, into our own lives as saviours.