A universe rests
on the wrist of night,
no larger than a bead
threaded by time’s thin wire.
It clinks softly
against its neighbours—
a cluster of fireflies
trapped in glass,
their wings folded in silence.
You might mistake it
for ornament,
something small enough
to slip between fingers,
yet tilt it in the light
and you’ll see whole galaxies
burning in miniature,
Nebulae tilting blue,
and a scatter of supernovas
Singing their names.
The thread loops on,
uncountable,
an armlet of eternities—
and you,
for a fleeting moment,
the body it encircles.
Song version:
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