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Maestro of Miracles

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The souls of her machines will never die.
She makes eternal life from twists of wire,
And blesses every artificial eye
That rises from the innovator's fire.

They see the truth, those beings, never dead -
Brought close to human reflex, human pain.
She feels no dread, and calculates instead
A method to transmute a corpse's brain,

A way to change the world, reanimate
The lost, the children sleeping in their graves -
They're dreaming still, it never is too late
To show, through science, how the world is saved.

Do not play God, she's warned, and so she plays
A symphony, instead: it is her right
To make electric deities her own way.
Her laboratory, drenched in holy light

Is home to stars; the heavens are brought down
When ghosts sing hymns again, pure and awakened.
She is the final miracle - she's found
A way to recreate the once-forsaken!

...

A cemetery twitches with the stench
Of carcasses that move, and a young girl,
Skin drained of blood, desires to avenge
Her beating heart. She craves the unchanged world.