A zillion miles of night
caress the little star.
One amongst countless
it shines, knowing only itself,
bravely blazing.
For it knows no other way.
A zillion years of light
burst from the little star.
Wished upon, sung to,
followed, all its' shining life.
Little star. Little star.
Probing eyes lit on it;
photographed and spectroscoped it.
Analyzed; they deemed it -ordinary,
tagged it with a strange, forgettable name.
Pronounced it long ago
Dead.
Long ago dead, they said.
The little star,
dead.
Light in the night,
bright dreamy light,
white and a little blurred.
Dead? Absurd.
Something in us
may have died.
But
not our little star.