The three-year-old was not convinced.
For all his mountain-climbing mud,
He got no chance of plucking stars
To sparkle up his goodnight milk.

For thirty years, he sat on hills
So Milky Way adopts him once.
But all it ever did instead
Was orphan him of conviction.

It took his words three hundred years
To rise as cream in people’s minds,
Convinced, at last, to hear their breaths
That pluck at constellation chords.

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