The stars doesn't twinkle, they say,
The stars are all dead.
They tell me that the cosmos
is full of beautiful exclamations
of death.
Like it was never thought of as
alive,
But only as a dying mass of
colours and clouds and lights
and craters and satellites.
Nothing at all but death.
And looking up now, I reply,
We are the cosmos.
We are dying
until that beautiful exclamation.
But until then,
we are alive.