Glorious ancestors' past lost to sands of time,
the combined suffering of our souls intertwined.
Golden dunes of sands rolling ever far,
mired by the Walls of Ra like a scar.
Worship the gods and their blinding light,
while they turn their backs on our dark plight.
Outlander boots march through our lands seeking glory,
Respecting not our ways, our lore, and our stories.
Will the gods yet look?
Will the gods yet listen?