Shangri-La was the last hope of a dying species. We have forgotten the names of those brave souls who built her, and cradled in the ark our people. In saving us, they doomed us to drift.
We met only the refuse of those who had come before. Others who had squandered paradise and fallen, leaving the rusting hulks of their cities scattered among the stars.
We had lost so much and traveled so far, and only in the last days did we realise there was no Eden. No Valhalla for us. No prophesied Arcadia with its golden sands and verdant grasses.
We are an orphan who killed our mother. Libertas may not be paradise, but a weary traveler cannot reject port in the storm.
We are the dispossessed.
The ancient colossi rose from our homeland long ago,
when the golden doors closed at last.
The huddled masses streamed to the stars,
ancient lands abandoned behind us.
Our journey has been beset by the tempest of time.
Yet under a star, we found a shore.
We are of Libertas.