That knock on my window,
Tin-shelled Finicky, the bug,
Handed me a jar of sand,
And a bag of pearly leaves -
A token from a shop of souvenirs
From the east of third moon...
Moon that houses Widu's tales,
Widu-lings soul-shaped shadows,
And scar of wings of every bug
When they flew in fluids sans soles.
Now they linger and walk
On clouds that ground blades
On beaches of worthless rubies and jade.
Years of six hundred and twenty one days
Across the mounding star of Kaag...
Shorter nights of Widu, the world craves of rays,
Hung in ateliers unworthy of brag.
The Widu of fluid lanes and yellow skies
Still lives, in whimpers of broiling monuments,
Outlived by me and every bug that tries.
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