Last night,
You told me under the stars about
The truth of stars,
As a few spark and fly over our heads
And myriad more stand still;
And I write it here today to not forget.
The thing about stars, you say,
Is that they know no truth or lies,
Nor their difference.
They are not, you agree, conscious.
Planets twinkle above, multicolored.
Stars have no concept of time,
Of when or how.
And don't forget, you say,
Eager and almost interrupting:
That what we see is not the stars
anymore, in fact,
Just the light they once exuded
Before dying away
to us.
. . .
Erika
