Orbhraighe

A world is a word,
A short metaphor,
A painted brass ball
Meant to represent
Nearly everything,

On a brass lever
Sprung from concealed gears
Describing cycles,
A minor device
For table-top thought

Built to entertain
High-born bit players
In low, bitter wars,
Fighters for title,
God, and privilege

Whose title survives
As a name for small
Machines meant to spin
Concentric systems
As if they were worlds,

Pure worlds and not words,
Without spheres or gears,
But sudden and rough
As spots where creeks cut
Years' notches in rocks.