by Varya Kartishai
Saturn is out of tune.
The brilliant throngs that tread
their endless dance
to his insubstantial piping
are unaware of the vague discord.
Bound to his gaseous bosom
in an eternal embrace
They whirl through blackness
glittering with reflected light.
None can deny the roundness of the moon
as lit by other light. In paths ordained
it moves across the ink-black sky of night.
Yet more of truth is shown by shadows cast
upon the smoothness of that silver orb,
limning for us the craters marked by time
as darkness shapes a slender crescent’s edge.
And as a child with a round face yet unmarked
will turn aside and, profiled, stand revealed
though still untouched by time’s vicissitudes,
his forbears’ shades presage his fate to come.
When those who decide fate cast off Pluto,
they gave no thought to trammeled souls
too heavy with worldly wealth to pass through a needle’s eye.
Where will they rest, these homeless wraiths,
if Earth’s dark fringes close their icy doors?
Copyright © 2012 by
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