Oh, such is the mystery…
This lunatic, this uranographer,
this mad mountebank,
set upon drawing the paths of stars,
set upon tracing the tiniest of lights,
up there, in the black depths of the sky,
has instead drawn my life.
I am now hanging between Alpheratz and Mirach,
in the constellation of the Princess,
How fragile my string is.
A mere breath could send it swaying,
one light-year this way, one the other.
And to think of all those stellar winds,
Such is the mystery.
I am still there,
Watching you sleep.
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