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When the Sky Forgets Itself
The night unfolds like ink in water—
a cascade of darkness over the hills,
dripping slowly from the corners of the sky.
Above, a nebula pulses,
not with light,
but with memory—
a soft, aching breath of color
too distant to touch,
too alive to ignore.
The river winds in serpentine motions,
its skin moonlit,
its voice a lilt against the rocks.
In the reeds, something stirs—
the subtle slither of what does not wish to be known,
but cannot help being seen.
A myriad insects chant the language
of things that were never written down.
The moon—
that cold, familiar lunar sentinel—
hangs overhead like an old regret,
casting a pale, indifferent eye
over the ruins of our intentions.
Even the stones are glowing now,
faint and phosphorous,
as if remembering the sun
in the hush before dawn.
And somewhere—
somewhere beyond this moment—
the sky forgets itself,
and begins again.
Copyright ©
Evelyn Hew
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