A poem
We are made of the same cosmic breath,
born from the explosive bloom of stars,
supernovae scattering
their celestial seeds.
Our atoms forged
in the furnaces of dying suns,
we are children of the infinite,
our bones once burned brilliant.
As planets spun into existence,
we are star stuff returning to itself,
this cosmic communion
written in every cell.
When the night arches naked above us,
we are merely reconnecting
with our stellar origins,
the universe gazing upon itself
through the mirrors of our starry eyes.
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