The Belt of Three Blue Pearls

Mist, haze, smoke, ash,
Clouds, veils, brown smog—
Let’s paint our dawn
Of a new age—

Or an old one.
Stone that flowed red
As the dove’s neck
Torn from its head,

Now’s black as cats
That hunt doves here,
As night; this dust
Dims dark a bit,

Makes its black matte,
But you can still
Watch stars come out,
A few at least.