We post these words
for all to see,
though words
are soon forgot.
The works of our
Black Armory
live on, though
bodies rot.

Lest working hands
grow idle now,
with gaze
fixed 'pon the sky,
we plant our feet
on solid ground,
and earthward
turn our eye.

Though boundless space
does treasure hold,
and gifts
seem cheap or free,
we wait and watch
this age of gold,
sad vigil
though it be.

We place our works
in hands of all
and guard
'gainst threats unknown.
For though we gaze
into the stars,
we first must
shield our own.