All living babies squall at birth
Though welcomed with mirth;
Do they feel life’s misery flare
Or see death brandish in the air?
Soon they forget; they’ve just been told,
Enjoying life, ignoring death at the treshold.
They grow up scattered like stars, numerous;
Making their own day, some bright, others less.
Yet, a star has blown itself up in the day light,
Unable to forget, to resist the dark and fight,
The dark, its shadow, that’s made it prim,
Eclipsing its day into a premial night, then dim.
Like a quarry in a soundless hunting game,
The star has died out, preceding its name;
Putting an end to its journey of hope;
In this gory film, the hero was just a rope.
The astral glint was a mirage, a water pool
In the desert, accessible to the thirsty ones,
Filled by woe for its drought, like bereft swans,
Filling it with mourning tears, as it’s the rule.
In an atoning act, one that is, and not, brave,
He took his long heaved secrets to his grave;
What was gnawing at his conscience, what guilt
Has made him weed out what was long built?
The star has blown himself up reducing his span to naught,
Cutting short his story with its fuzzy, firm knot;
Redeeming it his right to bring his light to an end,
Conspiring with the devil, shaking its hand.
I wonder which to be mourned and cursed ;
His self-extinction or life’s pressure burst?
May he mercifully rest in a heavenly home,
Not under the ground like a ghostly gnome!
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