Greetings From Easter Island

We were seeded
By a mother culture
Children of genius
That have stemmed into ignorance
The writings on the wall
Spell out our surprising past
We wrongly decipher them
To be primitive artistic rash
God dies when the churches rise
He was born when the ancient astronauts arrived
The heavens exist and our maker is there
Death is not the way to visit, technology is our only prayer
Beacons left behind
Which are scorned upon when appealed
They are the maps to our existence
That are soon to be revealed
The writings on the wall
Spell out our surprising past
We wrongly decipher them
To be primitive artistic rash
God dies when the churches rise
He was born when the ancient astronauts arrived
The heavens exist and our maker is there
Death is not the way to visit, technology is our only prayer
We were made to be the grateful slaves of the stage
God dies when the churches rise
He was born when the ancient astronauts arrived
The heavens exist and our maker is there
Death is not the way to visit, technology is our only prayer