Mankind in three ages, save four. None in the properest sense but last

Not an exchange of single kin, for the tribe, Our sin

No, that's a misreading of history––and intent, Our past

Worse –and much so– an exemplar of death as solvent to its selfsame stubborn fact

––and at that end, and Ours, a terrible hint:

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First a knowing never sated

Then a taking and shadow cast

Finally the childish treble, the meekest inheritance

––a giving opposite the desire we've ever known: Katapausis at last

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Alchemical inversion of this bad light, this Malum

Secret satiation and salve: 

The turning of We leaden to gold

a knowing that we cannot know, an un-having we cannot have

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Hungry lovers and haters of Man, thieves every one, We;

made saviors to ourselves in the letting go, the open hand to our fellows, 

the acceptance of our cold natures and kin

A light turned warm in final glow, a resting of burden, a loss, 

to the creature plagued by need of win