The Flyers

40

The Winter night’s moon
Is wet and dangling all silver
Half-plucked from the
Eyes of the stars

It’s a huge wounded sky
With supernova celebrations
Politics of worlds may continue
And a bit of human music

But evolution cares about
The end-game, the empowerment
Of life at its height
In its golden ages

The occasional colonization
Of stars by mortals
Or by their machines
The grasp of angels to

The oxygen and water-worlds
Our curiosity was not unlike
The first ones, with gleaming hands
Each new species makes its way

Out from the confines of its
Civil war and ruined economies
As if they were the first.

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