The dust slowly swirling, discs whirling into one lump sum, twirling of all the things undone to be born under an infant sun, in a clump of the stuff in which this sun was made up.

Loved in its embrace, of circling lace, as a gift to haste its facing into space and replace the place where empty space once stood

Call her wormwood, as her wobbling turns wandering, and wittily heads for earth, on the path of rebirth, to a compact burst of matter, scattering our planet in solar soaring of the seeding of our being from the black and back to dust.

Swirling, whirling, twirling, of the things undone, and reborn unto the dying sun.