We are temporally bound in a galaxy where we are not the starlight:
burning in a bath of ice, we twinkle but we are not the starlight.
Echoed against a black cloth, like constellations of drowned dreams
our memories are lost to myth because we are not the starlight.
Like a twilight patchwork quilt on which stars are stitched to threadbare seams,
we cannot wake the sleeping sun because we are not the starlight.
Among the tiptoeing waves are sweet slivers of silver moonlit beams
that dare us mortals to fathom infinity since we are not the starlight.
A boat ripples through the cosmos, leaving darkness in its streams;
we are drifting on lunar swells even though we are not the starlight.
Way out in that nebulous space, a bright star gleams
but by the strange order of the universe, we are not the starlight.
Like glimmering Christmas lights in a winter’s extremes
I may be a Warrior of Mars, but we are not the starlight.
Ephemeral
