His weary hands providing a place for us to fly,
Enough space for a Sun, for a world to see by,
And in the shadows flash his tired eyes.
art by Boris Vallejo
The great work he is doing,
The sphere that he's moving,
Is invisible to all below:
His painful labors are unknown,
Seeds by mere darkness sown.
A magnum opus unfolding in the night,
A flower that opens only for the wise!
And continually, the giant is agonized:
No mortal ear could hear that rumbling cry!
Thunder and lightning, yet still he stands,
Toiling to preserve the land.
Beaten harshly by the wind,
Tortured by foes, unseen by friends,
Yet the obedient giant struggles to the end.
Time, time, the great dragon of time,
Wipe us clean, burn away our pain.
Let us fly free once again; for even a heart immortal cannot contain
The varied sorrows of Hell.
And A hundred thousand demons his vast breast swell.
Waves of grief and loss to quell an innocent resolve.
Yet in the end, neither god nor devil wins the day.
A brief and sinful mortal comes Atlas' way,
A visitor to break an endless tide of silent suffering.
And after only the briefest day, and the cheapest trick,
A titan's chains are reforged.
His tired mind and tired hands surrender then,
To his bitter task, which he will carry to the end.