Ah, the rarity of unbound souls.
You are at once the furnace and the smith,
You pry each drop of heat from dying coals,
And from those scraps create the monolith.
You quench the monolith and still the flames,
Clean up the shop and stow the tools away,
Draw tight the windows' shutters in their frames.
Quiet, yet there to work another day.
In time your little shop will close for good.
Your tools will rust, the furnace stays unlit.
And this is fine, though termites eat the wood,
Destruction is all that time holds for it.
The once-great walls of Ur no longer stand,
My son, they were not built by unbound hand.