I read in a poem,
Sky black,
             Scorched Earth.
But the night is a jigsaw:
I sit on my porch and constellate
The fires, the fathers of worlds
While I think of the words
To perceive what I will never touch.

My spirit ascending
To touch a thousand
Light years of light,
They have never heard a word,
So I write the fire,
Like a son to father,
The poem becomes a legacy
Of flames thirsting for words,
I drink in the light
And give to them words,
They will never know why,
The poem will reach them
As an ember of misunderstanding.

The immortal word
Is a light reflected .
I will write to the stars,
And when the poem reaches,
I will have gone from this place,
I write because I am a man,
Mortal and dying,
My words will remain.

The stars constellate men.