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on the scratchy grass
digging past the thick layers
of her windbreaker,
arms spread, eyes disbelieving,
dark sky filled with pinpricks of light –
were the stars taped on? –
glimmering and shining and dreaming,
to see constellations tell the mighty stories
of the fallen,
to see the galaxy in which they belonged to
past the smoke of the city,
cloudy fear and painful regrets,
crystal clear clarity in the deepest night
bringing memories of childhood –
simple and pure.

I have never seen many stars paint the night sky. It has always been a pinprick here and there. Pollution and smoke has too long hidden these treasures from human views. But even watching a video of the stars painting the night in New Zealand is enough to make me long for something. Something I don’t have anymore.


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