The town of the grateful yet,
soon to be dead,
receive one last glance of the universe.
The radiant truth stills voices
and tranquilizes breath.
Eleven fireballs illuminate the moondust sky.
The grim sapphire hills wicket the town.
Is this the way to heaven?
This is the way to the stars.
The black tree's hair is a moussed flame,
a pin-point on the absent map.
An imaginary itinerary to starry night.
The orange crescent moon sings
lullabies to a silent town,
trapped in Bardo.
As the wailing spirit of death
slurps the brilliance from the stars.
Eleven stars, eleven souls.
Soothed gratefully to death
on a starry night.