Across the black and velvet loom of night,
She pulls a thread of burning, liquid gold;
To stitch together sparks of ancient light,
And keep the creeping shadows from the fold.
With fingers carved from diamond and from frost,
She knots the solar flares to spinning spheres;
Lest every wandering world be truly lost,
Within the ocean of ten thousand years.
A needle forged from starlight pierces through,
The heavy fabric of the quiet deep;
To wake the morning in a wash of blue,
While tired constellations fall to sleep.
The day is born from every careful tie,
A masterpiece upon the vaulted sky.
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