In the brooding light, you were formed.
You were born in clouds and dust, and you grew up in the luminous sky.
You were scattered throughout the different parts of the galaxy.
You are trillions of miles away,
yet still visible to the naked eye.

As the star gradually evolves and forms
into different entities,
it is either a planet, an asteroid, or a nebula —
or even just a speck of dust and never formed.

It is also the start of your
long, deep slumber.
While in the intergalactic space in your eyes,
gravity pulls back the gas and forms another one. And the galaxy is bathed in gas.

While you were out of breath, I talked to you.
So you can hear your friend in the dark.
Your death is also the birth of another celestial space.
Between the illustrious energy and gravity's back-and-forth,
recycling gases and turning them into a new form of galaxy,
it is like the way you breathe in and out —
while your eyes are closed.

Did you wear an evening gown?
While the patients here wear something ridiculous, you can't stand it.
So you wore a red dress in your deep, restless sleep.

Tonight, I looked over the moon and remembered you.
They called upon the universe and they gave you space.
You were there, starlike.
I gave you one last message before I turned my back.

I will always put my faith in the phenomenon of celestial space.

Then you held my hand, so slow and weak.

You told me, and I smiled, "In the chaos of everything, I heard you."

And another star exploded, but you lived.

Time, as we have come to know it, is only relevant to our planet Earth;
because out in deep space it would lose most of its meaning and worth.
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