The heart of each star may be a diamond,
and when whole atmospheres are made of them
they are worthless.
Saturn, and his son Jupiter,
have a wealth of crystal blades.
To near them is to suffer,
as though sliced by a billion knives,
a death whose value is overestimated
by a factor equal to the number of lives
spent in pit mines.
By the lake,
water red as blood in the setting sun,
a man kneels with a shining ring,
and asks to own the heart
of another.
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