Then, moving and blinking-
just an airplane,
helicopter - satellite.
The stars are the same as those
that centuries old romantics
drew their poetics from.
It was against these same
stars that Keats once saw the
form of a nightingale, singing
its repeated song through the black.
Echoing cries still reign tonight. . .
And then a star moves.
I've heard this song before,
gazing into a cloudy night.
Such a sweet song,
sing on please.
I love you so. . .
I've heard this song before;
Such protection in knowing
just what you have and
just what you deserve.
I deserve this. . .
I do. Sing on, sing on-
What is it you deserve?
Nobody's listening but sing on. . .
Surely not the stars, true stars,
nor this sweet, immortal, bird song.
There is protection in pain,
in falsehoods we let ourselves believe.
Then a star moves. . .
An airplane gliding through the night,
I wanted to believe in.
And I pray for the people on the plane:
May the stars guide you to a
safe landing. And maybe. . .
just maybe,
you can come gaze at the stars with me.
We'll believe in them all
and pretend,
at least for now,
that we deserve it.