In this world, so poorly cut and sewn with white thread,
In the icy, needled, lonely wastes, where impossible to find a spark,
We reckon at least not to vanish entire (as once planned the trilobite),
But imagine how funny if our calculations were terribly misread,
If Betelgeuse strikes Earth with all the brute force from the cosmic dark,
And yet, I would not be able, of course, to stop loving you one bite.
And the eyes of all observers will dim: of men, and of beetles, and squirrels alike,
And burnt by the supernova laser, the heavens become a fleece, shining bright,
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