Armor yourself with amulets.
Go barefoot under the night.

Scan the stars north of Scorpius
where Ophiuchus grasps his snake.

Buried between those markers
dire remnants of destruction.

The scars too faint, too far
for any eye to pick them out.

Yet back in Kepler's prime,
they were a fiery funeral pyre.

An outpouring of grief so bright
it burned through daylit sky.

Look up therefore and weep
for what was rent asunder.

Call on your gods to ease
the unbinding of a star.