No guarantee the world will never end,
certainty, though, that each small world will cease.
We call it “death,” we call it just “release,”
neither word matters, the rules cannot bend:
They may disguise or hide, they may portend,
they may lead to hardship, or to soft ease.
They only signify there will be peace,
and silence to the which all ears attend.
The world revolves, each day it ends in fire,
but never quite achieves a full return.
There’s too much quiet on each starry night,
the stellar entities form no new choir,
though, without ending, they don’t cease to burn
but never shed the necessary light.
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