Stars

The stars are out in force tonight,
So thick I hardly trust my sight
To pick out any star aright
From all its brethren points of light.

Their beauty, if indeed it be,
Is beautiful enough for me,
For every star I chance to see
Is bent on shining mightily.

And yet when all is done and said,
What are these sparks that glow so red
But soulless chunks of matter fed
By nothing that’s alive or dead?

And all these stars I fondly praise,
At least the ones on which I gaze,
Too long ago were set ablaze.
They all have seen their bertter days.

So what then constitutes their claim
For us to elevate their fame?
Whatever glorifies their name
Must come from us, our love of flame.

For warmth and light mean something higher.
Is life not symbolized by fire,
That life to which we all aspire?
And thus for flame our great desire.

Slow time, that strains all through its sieve,
To us has life and death to give.
Stars face no interrogative
For, worse than death, they never live.

And yet, though they themselves are blind,
To us unwittingly are kind.
However dark they are in mind,
They shed whatever light they find.

So from whatever depth or height
Let stars, however far, shine bright.
For though it may lose much in flight
I’m always glad of any light.