In the distant, in the land of the forgotten,
shut eyes scan across the plains.
Made by the herd of tortoises, which we walk on
protecting God’s gold, surrounded the holy grain,
Alert with out time’s control
continuous circling around the gift of gold.
Birth of secrete mountains, hills simultaneously evolve.
Segments took from the creatures of old
By a production called, farming. Stolen their shells.
Placed on the peaceful, cyclopean tortoises, who cannot complain,
of the discolouration. And will not let us, the humans, ring their knell!
The rest of the tribe will not give up, to our money-making, ignorant brains.
They know, they are going to survive, through the pests
us, the selfish humans!
Throughout our inhumane tests.
They shall be!
Forever protecting God’s gold,