It’s just a giant rock, he said, but without it no life would exist.
A rock that rocks apparently.
So lifeless and barren on the shining face of her,
Pitted scars like pockmarks.
What affliction has she felt that those flaws linger clear,
Starry eyes a witness to her blitzing?
Did she scratch and pick away at the scabs till the life juice rained like vital tears to earth, dripping from her bright but blemished skin to bloom as scarlet flowers on her shielded sibling?
Unsetting weeping seeping down, paling her complexion to the powdered bone.
We ancient blood rose seedlings sense her sacrifice,
Praise the portal she tends through which we come and go from this blue sphere,
With such compassion as only sufferers know.
She sings of silver-lit darkness,
The constancy of change,
Fertility in death,
Pain worth enduring and blast-born beauty.
She is our rock.
Our rock of ages and philosopher’s stone.
Semele Xerri
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