Do we create what is not so that we may be,
To give essence a soul and life to hope?
We're creatures of this universe,
And of our own limitations.
Bound by our imperfections,
We search for divinity to set us free.
What shall we find of speach,
But our own voices echoing in solitude.
Is there hope left in procreation,
To give eternal life to man?
Never shall I know of life,
For I am but destined to mortality.
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