Our words are winter birds
That sleep in snowy trees
And burst in little flames
Thrown up against the sky
When I look up I see a comet
Carrying 150 people impossibly
Through pink morning light
The past century flashing by
I imagine them the last survivors
Fleeing the burning world
Or maybe another Noah's load
Of strange new animals and plants
Immigrants from the sun awaiting
A dove to bring them word
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