A poem about stars —

When one looks up onto the stars
at night, one must wonder how much
pain, like from what the truest
of art forms are made of,
was poured into installing them
in their respective places in
the sky.

I think of what they say, how each
and every star that burns is a soul
who has lived, loved and passed
away.

I think of Tala from the myth who
sacrificed herself for the sake of her
sister, and burst into a million
glittering pieces.

I think of what scientists say and how
within a span of millions if not
billions of years, masses of all sorts
came together to form what we see
now from where we stand.

I think of what you told me that night,
how the brightest of stars are
supernovas that ate up all the other
bodies near and around it, and how
what we see are but remnants
of what has already occurred.

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