An interstellar revelry of great
Cosmic winds where twisting shades can abate
The flow of time. Brazen in observing,
With their celestial eyes, unnerving.
If we had the choice to ask of them, which
Scenes have born and have died, yet would we switch
The query around? Would we wonder on
The vistas they have seen. Destruction. Gone.
End.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem