Hung low in the sky at night,
brighter than a brief reflection;
the comet flies.

Small crowds of pointed fingers,
perpendicular to the comet's cares,
trace the growing sense of awe
that builds on every shore.

Is it further than the sea? What lies
beneath the beast? Will its whiteness
end the world or will the world survive?

Children ape; arms pinned straight,
shoulders hunched, racing round in circles.
The comet is a silver lure, its significance forgot.

Rattling the tombs of Kings,
from ages past,
from pasts,
passed.