The Land's Big Joke (A Timeless Lament)

(The music begins softly, with a playful, waltzing rhythm—like an old, forgotten dance. Our ancient narrator stands atop a crumbling hill, gazing down at the earth with a bemused smile, having seen it all before.)

Well, here I stand, King of the Dust, Trying to claim what I know I must.

But the ground just laughs, with a wicked gleam, “You think you own me? What a dream!”

I’ve held my scrolls, with marks of ink, But the earth just sighs, “Oh, what did you think?”

No gate can hold, no key can bind, The land has outlived all of your kind.

(Our narrator chuckles softly, tossing the scrolls into the wind. The air grows light with ancient laughter as they step forward, spinning in place with a graceful flourish, their movements practiced through centuries.)

Oh, they say we're rulers, masters of all, But the earth will rise, and we will fall.

Fools we are, with our fleeting schemes, While nature hums her endless dreams.

(The narrator pauses, listening to the wind for a moment, before pulling out an old, weathered shovel—far too large and absurd for the task at hand. They swing it lightly, then toss it aside with a quiet chuckle, resuming their dance as the melody sways and shifts to a deeper, richer tone.)

I built a tower, so strong and grand, a place where I could make my stand.

But the trees they grew, the vines took hold, And whispered stories long untold.

For all my stone, for all my pride, The roots crept in, and time did bide.

I thought I ruled, I thought I won, But the earth just smiled and carried on.

(The narrator moves with the flow of the music, mimicking the slow, steady growth of vines overtaking stone. The tempo picks up as the realization dawns once again—this is not a battle one can win.)

Oh, we walk the earth, our heads held high, But beneath our feet, the land will rise.

We carve, we build, we try to reign, But nature’s dance will ever remain.

(A gentle instrumental interlude follows—a slow, lilting waltz. The narrator begins to hum along, before breaking into a soft-spoken reflection, as if speaking to no one and everyone at once.)

Bridge (Spoken)

“Ah, but what are we to the stones beneath? To the roots that weave in ancient wreath?

They wait, they watch, they bide their time, While we play games with sticks and rhyme.”

(The music swells gently, as the narrator sighs and takes a deep breath, preparing for the final revelation. The dance begins anew—stronger, wiser, and full of quiet acceptance.)

So here’s the truth, I’ll tell you now, The earth does not bend, does not bow.

We draw our lines, we cast our stones, But in the end, it’s her we’ve known.

She waits, she laughs, she lets us play, But we’re just guests along the way.

Her song is long, her dance is true, And we are nothing, me and you.

(The narrator smiles sadly, as if letting go of a long-held belief. They sway gently with the music, feeling the weight of the earth beneath their feet, no longer fighting against it but moving with it.)

Oh, we claim the land, we draw our maps, But nature waits, and soon she snaps.

The trees will rise, the stones will fall, And we will be the fools of all.

(The music softens as the narrator takes a deep bow, their movements slow and deliberate, as if offering respect to the earth beneath them. The wind picks up again, swirling leaves around their feet, carrying their words away into the night.)

So let us dance, while we are here, For soon the earth will reappear.

And all our lines, and all our pride, Will fade like whispers on the tide.

(The final note lingers, soft and sweet, as the wind fades into silence. The narrator tips an invisible hat to the earth and walks off into the moonlit night, whistling a tune as old as time.)