Regression

We are earthlings, we talk about earth,

We don’t care about the heaven, we don’t know what it’s worth

We are made of sand, crawl on this ancient land,

We don't fancy stars, we just like to read our hands

We are trapped in a tiny grain,

The past, etched into our primitive brains

We don't need to aim high, still busy discovering fire,
You carry on exploring space, we'll vanish without a trace.

____ Nocturnal