of stars we can see
hides the night
of eternity among
these folds remain
the very ones
we can reach out
for with our finger
tips with eons
left before they
grow to yield
their sentient fruit
we can reach out
for with our finger
tips with eons
left before they
grow to yield
their sentient fruit
that light the shroud
of a ghost that has
found itself yet
to be born
of a ghost that has
found itself yet
to be born