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Rhythmic Ascension
Arise, strip your skin of it's sand-caked crust,
Stand upright, find yourself 'midst the rubble
Of burial mounds of most ancient dust;
Now, look above, past the sight of Hubble;
Freed of cocoons, the Collector's fixed pins,
We'll soar the skies as new-born Gypsy Moths;
Cleansed, shed of Darwin's tired old mottled skins,
To dare Doom, not to drown in tidal froths;
We'll circle the orbits of Einstein's dreams,
Bathe in Light, which he held such affection,
See for ourselves Beauty's equated schemes;
Then, All shall pulse our rhythmic Ascension;
First, we must fly Newton's Fated apple,
Break our bonds, Jealous Gravity's grapple.
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