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Oddity in a Strange, Sterile Room.

Against a dark,
four-dimensional fabric,
stars burn
bright, fast as light
can, yet do not shimmer.

Among them,
ancestors:
parents,
in a way.

We are dust
guts
of dead stars
that went out not
with a whimper

but the loudest
(however silent)
bang.

I see them all staring
back at me from the past,
from just beyond

what must be the clearest
glass I have ever
laid my eyes upon.

Press the face
up against it, strive
to fully witness

this sacred, cosmic
moment. Up, down
back and fourth
I stretch to see yet

cannot find
any walls, horizon,
ceiling: all around me
there appears
to be sky.

And there is a hand
on my shoulder.

Long fingers caressing,
comforting, long
and deep exchange
of mental whispers…

History
coming back
to me.

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