The ones who make are never grey,
They never long to flee or stay,
They aren’t afraid of that deep void,
And use it’s black to undestroy
The things their fingers and their minds
Contrive to shape, to life to grind.
For even from the dreadful night
Of worthlessness and painful plight,
The ones that make, the gods, the giants,
Do draw their ore, their wood, their iron,
Their pens, their canvas, or their silk.
And once that nightmare they have milked,
Upon its bones they dance and sing,
And use its winter as their spring.
And this is how they’re always great,
They’re always content with their fate,
For they all know, their goal, their wings,
Is always to create new things.
