Embers
How long has it been since the fury of Heaven reigned down upon us? One-hundred years? A thousand? Time once had no meaning for us and this has not changed. The reasons however, are different.
What is uncountable lifetimes for our creations is less than a generation in ours. A generation that will never bear fruit. We are confined to the mausoleum of future history. Our legacy has shaped our future, as ghosts of a world once ruined, moved on from destruction. All life native to this world will move on, but we, the visitors, the conqueres, the usurpers, will not. Such is our fate.
Our creations call us gods. They might as well call us the lost generation.
I remember our past glory, now passed down in stories that are already fading. Cities with spires of silver, towering towards a golden sun. A planet once green and verdent, with endless seas. A people with songs of joy everlasting. A people who saw their place in the universe from the embers of dying stars to the flux of creation and imposed it on lower lifeforms. A people who gazed up at the night sky without fear, not suspecting the rebellion from those below them and the fury of that above. It is now said that our people have no present. Only an ever dimming past and non-existant future, one that will only reside in our dreams.
But even now, our work is not yet done. We forge our tombs, but they will serve beyond death. Within oblivion's cold embrace, we can perhaps find salvation for those who come after we who came before. Perhaps in wisdom, future war and disaster can be avoided.
Worshipped as a goddess of both, I would like to think so.