I am haemorrhaging. My life is haemorrhaging right out of me. I feel faint like a distant star on a foggy night. Oh where is the moon?

I burn too weakly now, masked by shadows that the wayward children lose their way home. They stay lost in the cold and crying, 'Oh where am I?'

Where have the other stars gone to, disappeared from their posts? They run away; they run out to play. But the children are still crying. Oh what do I do? What do I do?

I am haemorrhaging light, but it is still not enough to light the way home. In furrowed frustration, where are the other stars? In determined desperation, I light myself ablaze.

A heat grows within, and I haemorrhage more. Brighter and brighter I burn, piercing through the galaxy, through the dark void of space and through the foggiest of nights.

Look.

The children look up to see the northern star shining so brightly; too brightly that they are afraid to move. What is wrong? They asked me.
My voice quavers under the strain. Go home, I pray. Be safe. I can only burn this one last time for you.

This spectacle of mine drew the others home; they ask me with jeers, with curiosity, with worry. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?

I give the stars no answer but a question instead, where have you been?

And then the walls in me cave in and I explode.

A burst of light so bright it blinds. So bright it is burned into the eyes of the children that each time they close their eyes, they will see me. See me lighting their way home. But look up at the night sky now, and I am gone. I have burned out.

In all absolution and regret, I am returned into stardust.

Oh where am I now?