Battles

 

In the realm of the ephemeral, where time is a whisper,
pills fall like rain, promises of pure relief.
Capsules of hope, swallowed with a dry sip,
in search of a cure in an almost echoless world.

Drills hum, in a constant and strong rhythm,
piercing matter, defying the cut of luck.
They spin in spirals like dances of power,
creating and destroying without ever fading.

And on the horizon, Ragnarok announces itself,
with trumpets and fury the prophecy begins.
Gods and men of intertwined destiny
in an epic encounter the end is drawn.

The pills, now, are grains of a finished era,
and the drills are silent, their song no longer sounds.
The Twilight of the Gods and the Final Battle
where everything that is known will face fair approval.

But even in destruction there will be beauty in rebirth
because after Ragnarok a new world will be woven.
With lessons from the past and the wisdom of the present,
humanity will advance, resilient and aware.

So swallow the pill and feel the drill spin,
because on the verge of the end there is a beginning again.
and when the heavens open and the new day dawns
we will be more than memories on the ground where it rains.