"There's this myth,"
the wind exhales softly,
close to my ear.
"That every millennium,
a child is born right when the stars blink.
So, stardust flutters to the ground, granting the newborn the gift of the words—
of liquid gold.
The child grows as the Earth turns, largely unaware of what burns inside. Only when she comes of age and stardust begins spilling
up her throat,
out her lips,
and through her eyes,
does she truly know—
only when she opens her eyes,
shining with celestial dust,
to see galaxies
does she know."