At the Foot of Mt. Drisskill

We are but antlings
Vain in our assumptions
We would presume, we would presume
To grasp at the unfathomable

We would presume, we would presume
To dress it as man, to give it names
To speak its intentions, to speak its intentions

Yet we are humbled beneath the shadow
Of true greatness, and now the earth crest rises
To meet our gaze, to meet our gaze
We are but fleas, we are but lice

We are nothing, we are nothing
Insignificant dust motes
Blown away by the breath of time
Vague memories of no consequence

Vanquished are the fires in the eyes of the friends I knew
Just as they are deafened to my wasted breath
Each one more wasted than the others

Now I see through the illusion of permanence
I am diminished in the presence of vastness
Useless are my tools of science, of religion
There is no understanding of limitless power
We are at peace in our minor, subordinate role
Accept our frail, short lives