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At your core, gravity crushes hydrogen
into liquid metal, where it becomes
an electric conductor.

Holst, the symphonic astrologer,
orchestrated your old age as
contemplative, serene.

A sadness boldly pondered
resolving into acceptance

a vast lake of hydrogen
where tumult settles into ripples,
then the polished perfection of pearls.

Your moons attend you.
A family of sixty-two descendants
and admirers. They cannot leave your side.

Have you still the strength to
swing your scythe and reap for them
a harvest? Prepare a feast for solstice.

Io, Saturnalia! Celebrate the sun
we thought was dying but was only
far away. Revelry summons rebirth.

Close the courts. No justice
may be served today, nor any war declared.
We have eaten enough of our children already.

Let them grow old as we did.
Give them time to reach this aphelion
and wear these rings themselves.