Sleep, little one, wrapt in youth
Born of man and cursed to die
A race so primal and uncouth
Ignoring beauty in the skies
Artifice and dark machines
Choke the life from wondrous spheres
As man ingores his blessed dreams
And turns instead to hopes and fear
Seeks to craft own opus
Creating that so simply found
Does not look to Sirius
And all the beauty strewn around
The zenith, ‘midst the might stars
Which shone for aeons – will not die
To find true splendour, look not far
Just turn one’s head up to the sky

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