I pluck out a star from the sky
that came in my house last night,
whispering and rambling about
those things he liked about the night.
Its glitter and flickering
all alike the Scandinavian moon,
forgets to shimmer in the shadows
of our navy-blue corridor.
Where light substituted with darkness
left the burnt-out cranium lanterns alone.
The sound of closed air, and the staring of
the walls might have frightened him.
With anticipation he waits now,
for the hope that his light cannot bring;
into our world there is no sky!
No freedom, no meadows
where a sheep could bleat.
No night, that could caress the blue,
no holy grail to hold the light,
only the cacophony of the dead stars
that left their light behind, lost in
the oblivion of sweet sleep.
