To me, it feels most like lament
for the fact that perfection, without
any flaw at all, can still run its course.
And nothing could ever be anything wrong
with this thing we have found and grown
from source to some starriest pinnacle, still.
Lament for its plunge to some passing abyss.
It could not
be anything but
what it was. Let us
rejoice, then. We must,
remembering this.
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