Bright Stars

Someone,
Pricked needle holes,
In the curtain of the night.

The Light,
Which exists inside everything,
Is bleeding out and shimmering through.

It shines,
With a piercing brilliance,
On this foggy winter’s evening.

I stand,
Transfixed by unknown constellations,
My eyes inevitably drawn to one in particular.

The Pleiades,
That small gathering of light,
I look for every year at this time.

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