When Venus crashes into the meadowlands it will
Make us all into Alaotra Grebes, drowning in oil spill
Black instead of fading away from bird-eating fish and gill
Nets from humans without a sense of responsibility for an old brand.
But while we’re here, we might as well live and feed and be grand
And twirl our wings in open air over India or France or New York sand
Castles built in memorial out of small crystals that shine on the night skyline.
Even when apocalyptic clouds cover the shiny planets, the outline
Of our mark will last past the age of the sun and God will call it fine
Instead of good. We all make do with what is done; we get around
Anything in our way with acceptance in a sec, unless we listen to the hounds
Of conscience that tell us to be better, that greatness is built, not merely found.
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