Starlight climbs down the ladder of years
So that we can see it, and we believe that,
Standing in a field at night, looking up,
We are in the moment. But what if
That moment contains every other moment too?
We are also bodies of light, flickering
Through crowds of yesterdays, hastily
Making our way toward oblivion
And calling it living. But what if
Our light simply climbs down the ladder of years
And looks like magic to someone in some other field?
