Stardust

When I walk up to that podium I look down among the people below. I cast aside my papers. We will cast down our buckets where we stand no more. There must be a better option, there must be a truth. They say we have gotten what we wanted, we are equal now. But they still look at me different. My papers mean nothing anymore. Of one body, we are all made of stardust. So why does the picture on the outside change what we are?