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The Song of the Borg
Picard, fallen, and the Borg Queen, standing, on the forebridge in a pool of soft light, the rest of the bridge falls into shadow.
Picard
(forlorn)
My members fail, my tongue dries in my mouth, the life within me seems to swim and faint. Nothing do I foresee save woe and wail. No good can spring from mutual slaughter! If to win we must die, then victory is defeat. If to live we must lose, then defeat is victory. My mind is clouded, my thoughts obscure. I cannot see the way forward. I will not fight!
Borg Queen
(angrily)
What is this mad and shameful weakness? How hath this infirmity taken thee? Whence springs this inglorious doubt, shameful to the brave, barring the path of virtue? Nay, Picard! Forbid thyself to feebleness, it mars thy warrior name. Cast off the coward-fit! Wake! Be thyself! Arise!
Picard
A fever burns my skin to parching, my vision blurs, I am unable to stand. Why struggle and suffer, kill and die, when naught is gained? If there is no meaning, there is no cause for war. All must perish, but to what end? What victory can bring delight, bought with such blood? What reward can avail, thus sadly won?
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