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.