Stardust Serenade
The night unbuttons slowly at the rim of sky,
and spills its quiet galaxies like silver grain,
each star a whispered note the dark lets fly,
a trembling hymn of light without a name.
The moon, a patient violin of pale delight,
draws bow on silence stretched from here to far,
and every breath of wind becomes a note of night,
composed in dust that once belonged to stars.
Across the fields, the shadows bloom like ink,
while fireflies rehearse their fragile glow,
as if the earth itself had learned to think
in constellations buried deep below.
I stand where time dissolves in velvet streams,
my pulse in rhythm with the cosmic art,
for we are but the echo of old dreams,
a sky remembered faintly in the heart.
O listen, how the universe leans near,
to sing through bones and blood its ancient tune;
a serenade too vast for mortal ear,
yet soft enough to cradle even ruin.
And in that song, I lose what I once knew,
no edge, no end, no solitary part;
just stardust drifting, endlessly made new,
a quiet galaxy within the heart.
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