In the first 100 days
we welcomed you as bone
through the corridor of the white temple,
next we enter the brown one,
and its sunlight.
The beige cities pass on the way
and you walk the outskirts of the crowded districts,
like tourists, you count your days there,
but harvesters with celestial migrations bring
crops, dust, and pollinators
in from the orbitals
until at the last changing of color
you throw away your ribcage,
as you no longer need it,
pressed and known into terrestrial soil,
been done and dispersed in the rain.
Clouds come and go like spaceships
for the bodies
in the journey through the temples.
SuperNations are inconsequential,
as are Kingdoms and SuperLeaders,
The orb is everexistent.
The word is priyama,
the body priyamay.
The deliverance has been delivered.
The breath is threshed.
The stars are ponies.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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