Still dreamers of some long-lasting, 

In the finitude of ourselves, ones who claim 

Other than food and wealth and name

The qualities of character, styles of thinking. 

So it pains the late times to see unity, 

And strong are specialty and fraction. 

Glaring, through the funnel of action, 

Into the making of self is some singularity.  

The disquieting reason best knows little but firm:

Every star dies for sure. And in what yonder space

Will its relic light resemble a foregone appearance?

A promise of consistency fears replication in turn.