Beneath the clockwork of eternal spheres,
we trace the light of long-extinguished suns—
each photon carries history, adrift for years,
then lands as poetry on waiting tongues.

And what are we but dust that learned to burn,
then cooled to question why the heavens turn?
We name the constellations, but they keep
a silence deeper than the lunar sleep.

Fate, that unseen axis, tilts our gaze—
a comet’s arc, a cradle and a pyre.
We chart our days by phosphorescent haze,
then wonder if the stars feel their own fire.

Yet here, between the infinite and small,
we hold each other, knowing we will fall.