We are not tinsel, flat
Nor tinny, shallow sound whose echoes won’t be known a year from now
We are, “Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you.”
We are precious shine
Mined from the deep
Ribbons of pricelessness chiseled from someplace dark we’d entered into
Unknowingly, perhaps, but prepared nonetheless
Thence emerged, the metal of us hard-earned
We cannot be traded, bartered, or sold
We are made of this
We are made from this
Will they see us in next century’s sky?
Yes! And, ’til the 12th of Never
We are silvering