The pyramid builders looked up —
to the pharaoh, the blazing disc,
gods who promised order for stone.
We've got each other, and that's a lot.
Peasants craned toward the spire,
that finger of faith pointing past
the mud, the pox, the lord's indifference.
We've got each other, and that's a lot.
Factory workers looked across —
the line, the lunch pail, the union card.
Tommy used to work on the docks.
The office worker swivelled,
surveyed the open plan, the beige,
glanced toward the corner office.
She brings home her pay.
Now we look down.
Into the glow. The scroll. The self,
curated, captioned — a pharaoh of one.
But here's what doom-drunk prophets miss:
we are still searching.
We're still the ones who gather, build, and stay.
We set the table.
We've got each other, and that's a lot.
Not monuments — just kitchens,
just learning names, remembering them.
When we look up again,
it won't be toward gods or bosses or algorithms.
It will be toward each other.
And that's a lot.
For love.
We'll give it a shot.