Oblivion

Le scarabée
Through the desert vast, blackened by radiation,
Patient fifty-one, in defiant migration,
In his blazing steed, like a fireborn streak,
Speeds toward the dark void—no farewell, no peak. 

L’abri
Beneath the poisoned rain, where an ash fire twirls,
He waits, solitary, unshaken, as darkness unfurls.
The sky, ink and night, devours the horizon,
While in the shadow’s cradle, he smokes in abandon.
Nearby, cold and heavy, a silent magazine,
A metal companion with intentions unseen.
Under the fleeting shelter, he defies the void,
A specter in the mist, wandering, paranoid. 

Le dôme
Before Oblivion, he halts for a brief moment,
His gaze suspended, frozen in the heavy air’s torment.
The dome shines bright beneath the shadowed mills,
Slowly purifying the ancient remains it fulfills.
In the distance, like ghosts marching under the skies,
Men walk, bent over, restoring broken ties.
In the ash-laden air, where a bitter wind sways,
Hope still fights to be reborn from the earth’s decayed rays. 

Le prélèvement 
In the dark silo, like a sacred rite,
He prepares in silence to leave his mark, his light.
With a steady extraction, he seals his essence,
Offering the future a gleam of presence.
In the steel enclosure, where time stands still,
His genes rest, triumphant remnants, fulfilled.
An eternal chest guards, in its deep secret,
The shadow of a man seeking the horizon's sweet. 

Fixation 
Once the sacred extraction is complete,
Ezio, the robot, moves forward, mechanized, discreet.
With a cold arm of steel, precise, devoid of emotion,
He grasps the fragment, sealing the long-lived devotion.
Toward the shadow of archives, he carries the prize,
Joining the witnesses of a past that slowly dies.
There, in a sanctuary where time takes its leave,
Rest in silence the remnants of an empire's weave.