I listened to a man who was terminally sick,
And he wanted to talk politics.
But I was focused on the stars
And how they'd fall like grains of sand;
And then I heard the woeful wind,
Plaintiff as this breathless man.
And I was sad
That the stars did not fall
To mark the passing of our time,
For it has no real face and hands,
Or wings to fly on, or legs to run.
Yet rushes at us like politicians;
Perhaps that's what he said.