Dance, star-children, dance,
For you are born from the hot nova womb
Of the fetal goddess that is our universe.
I would string her necklaces of planets
And weave nebulae in her hair
Were I more to her than the crumbs of an atom.
I am lost in a love so great
That not even in the violent birth of time,
And never since,
Have two stars ever approached collision,
Excepting those locked in the suicidal embrace
Of Siamese twins.
A cold love, in the empty in-between.
Left to our own devices, we are
Planets in our own right;
Caught in cycles of gravity and love.
But no cometic will o’ the wisp,
Nor warm, homely Sun,
Will ever make her great,
Galactic traceries of spine
Less terrifying.