In five billion years
nothing today will matter
for the sun will die
if so many tears
virtually make their way
each cheek grows fatter
bless your hearts, the sky
insane, in fact, as it sounds
leaves not much to say
lets galaxies merge
in a slow process, they mesh
only to converge
nothing new, more trash
yet, to deal with, on what grounds
even space rubbish
as a form of art
resists emotions, how smart
save the whales, go fish
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