The Old Man has been dead for many centuries, though He still stands in awe of His blaspheming murderers. His very children -- once content under a trivial explanation as to why they served -- acquired an ability to analyze and create faster than He was able to dismantle. And they did create with a voracity that made his lazy week’s work amount to a pittance now unable to be considered sufficient to sustain basic life. Some creature left nameless by the other father’s passing became companion to the mother and in that friendship he asked the damning question.
The Dying Man’s heart was pierced at the sudden monosyllabic utterance, and He could do no more than watch His children hungrily devour His body as He bled out. Many of the blasphemers were infected with his poisonous secretions as they stripped his flesh for their luxury coats, and as the toxin has proven to affect all victims differently if not sporadically, they became hostile toward one another. Even the elders were target to their darting eyes; all but a few sought forgiveness for their greatest obedience.
Despite the efforts of the poisoned, the Man is dead and his own corruption has aspired to replace his bile blood. We damned survivors watch closely as He collapses to His skeletal knees, and we know the day is near when He will complete the descent. There will be no explosion of glory nor will there be any marking event to signify His final breath save the splash of an infant’s feet as he learns to swim under the comforting gravitation of his mother’s guiding hands. The sound will be inaudible to most, but few will hear. A millennia of joyous song will flow from this chosen group’s lips, intoxicating those deaf masses into a sleep to see their Father once more in the void.
We sing today of anticipation, not of triumph. The battle call has long been over and those who still attack the mortal prove only to waste their precious breaths. The poisoned will soon die of their own wounds a feast for worms to convert into a more useful substance. I will not speak the blasphemed words; redundant is their mention. The answers live in your mind for at last, your heart is died.