At the source of this wrenching poesy,
at the crux of crossing astral trains,
in the swarm of spirits
showing their astral teeth,
I simply drink from a deeper well.
Your civilization has accomplished much,
but when it ends my voice will go on,
and yours will not.
A weapon for artists,
distilled in the soul
and passed through ages
like a dreaming dream,
this knowledge of temporal flux
smashed open continually by beauty
unaligned.
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