We were fast, like light is fast.
We were made from stars, their dust,
like quantum castoffs, void-spun, and bound
to each other. We were all that was left,
particles just small enough to weather
those eternal tides. Fate makes no apology.
We peered out at the cosmos, presenting our apology.
Existence forced upon us, we held fast
to our patch of earth, what we called ours, the weather
notwithstanding – but no one could withstand the dust
that came to strip our farms, our souls. We left
our dreams behind with barren fields, westward bound.
We dreamed of flying, but where were we really bound?
In that crowded dreamscape airspace, my apology
rang hollow – sorry. I had nothing left
to offer as we hurtled through the bright, fast-
moving winds, above our fields, our home like dust
so far below and, rising, we became the weather.
We rained ourselves upon our crop, this weather
bringing life to dusty soil, our souls as bound
now to the land as to each other, until to dust
we both returned. Fate makes no apology.
Fleeting mortal candles burn so fast
that in the end, there is nothing left.
But that’s not right. The children who were left,
out standing in their fields, hardened now to weather
fate’s advance, would stand and stay, steadfast.
Like us, they to the land were bound,
and our lives stood as their apology
against the tide, until we returned to dust.
They remained, our legacy. We left them in the dust
as to stardust we returned. We left
and we offered no apology,
for none was ever needed (save for the weather).
Once more we were flying, bound
for a promised feast to break our long, long fast.
And now we break our fast on airy stardust
at a feast of boundless plenty. Dear children, whom we left:
For the weather, you have my most sincere apology.