I finally managed to complete a bestseller.
But before getting it published,
it was vaporized in a thermonuclear blast.
Had it and I lived, we’d have been famous,
known everywhere by everyone,
had we not just been blown back to the past.
Once a miraculous blue, green, and white
orb of diverse living creatures,
now a charred ball of burning ash in space.
Was it fate, or simply a cruel cosmic joke,
that I was born onto this planet,
with its future left up to the human race?