I remember voices in the dawn and
Clinging to the lawn to climb it, pine cones
Popping, sticking to the walls. Before the
Singing there were noises. They are gone. And

In their place, the ringing of a million
Billion suns, their cobwebs flung across the
Sea of time, declares the flame of memory
Dim before itself. To be alive has

Always been to capture light and sound and
Sweat as in a fishing net; to see the
Echoes of the distant quasars shooting
Through our history and document them.

Now the spinning wheels of astral arms have
Held us close to suckle, and the heaving
Breast of time descends to fill our hearts. In
Youth we once believed in love and art. From

Childhood dreams we see our futures written,
Scrawled across the sky in stardust, song, and
Blood. But we are not the bodies that we
Once discovered in the mud, and we are

Not the dreamers or the singers or the
Stars. We are the echo of a precious
Piece of memory, shooting, ringing: not the
Bodies; not the voices; but the art.


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