by Lyla Mahmoud
Stars flicker regretfully,
bound by the ink blanket of infinity,
as they gaze through liquid windows,
hoping to catch of glimpse of the quivering globe.
The man in the moon observes.
Perched upon God’s gaping smile,
his eyes spilling milk into the cauldron of creation.
Lips of silver dust,
nose of broken stone.
His ears obey the pull of silence,
echoing through heavy water.
Watch the man,
and the stars aching with remorse,
wonders ever present at their softly glowing fingertips.
In the Earth, in the Sun,
all the ancient bodies weave in this empty universe,
but cannot learn to create paradise;
their powers veiled by the dark shadows,
of God’s swollen womb.
