We are all of us stardust wrought.
The flame of stars sings in our blood, the weight of stars hums in our bones.
We are born of stardust and fire and in each of us is a universe blazing
Our blood sings with the flame of stars, sings life and heat and death and destruction, so vivid and fierce are we.
Fire is our blood, the flame of life, the flame which lights the torches, drives out the night, brings warmth to the cold and food to the hungry.
Fire is our blood, the flame of death, the flame which scorches the deserts, dries the lakes, burns forest and flesh alike.
Fire is our blood, the flame of stars which stand stark against the void, which burn across the cosmos and who linger long past death.
Our bones hum with stardust and are wrought with the trimmings of a universe, all blazing stone and shining dust.
In our bones lingers the old weight of stars, the weight of watching a universe turn, of seeing day and night and age upon age beyond counting.
In our bones sings the memory of stars long passed, powers of a sky beyond all knowing bound in human form, unable to forget what it was to be more.
In our bones is the ache of divinity lost, of grandeur brought low, of stars who burn no more, of a sky black and cold and forgotten.
We are born of stars, born of flames and light and the weight that bears worlds beyond all count.
We are more than flesh and blood, than dust and flame, than shadows of the forgotten.
We are born of stars, and to stars we return. In us waits a star unleashed, the power that wrought the sky and shaped all things.
We are born of stars, in our blood and bones. To remember what we were, to become it again, is our doom and our gift.
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