the sky looked like ink, no stars, just black; that’s how it began.
the moon did rise – solitary, like in choppy waters a swan
it fluttered wings and sang a song, scattering moondust around’
one by one, stars appeared, like guilty kids – without a sound
tales of betrayal deeply etched on the night sky
but clouds covered the truth – I don’t know why
the sky looked like ink – but chose to be a mute canvas
words flowed from a poet’s pen; that’s how it all began