A thousand years of rains have washed the blood of forgotten gods from the hillsides.
And what use are gods to a people who have subdued the Earth themselves?
They, who discovered fire.
They, who split the atom.
They, who cracked the genetic code.
They, who have slain the gods themselves.
That divine spark of intellect we kindled still burns in their minds.
They sail the oceans in ships as gray as their souls.
They soar joylessly through the heavens.
The gates of Olympus are swung open: nothing is denied to them.
What of the great heroes and monsters of legend? The passion and poetry? The prophets and oracles? The Age of Miracles?
That magic is gone now.
I look in on them from time to time — the last of a lost pantheon.
Sometimes I pity them. Sometimes I envy them.
I raise my umbrella against the rain. The tears of the lost gods pour down on me.