The Son

Tell us about your sun, they said to the last of us in the cosmos. He recalled the time before he was sent to sleep in a womb made of iron.

Our sun, the fireball of the sky. None like it shone that white yet we drew it so yellow. Its warmth ran through everything that stood and fell. We worshipped Him and tried to understand but it was He who measured us in his flashes of day and night. Because He was the one who was always on time. And even now as I stand here so far away I can feel that I am a part of Him,  in my breath, which is nothing but filled with the scent of that dying star.

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A bit like you.

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