chubby fingers point to the freckles among a dark curtain

the smallest one asks the name of each fire

the tallest of the children

uses his brains

he paints them a story

and tells them its planes

the second child

won’t believe a lie

she rambles about a needle

poking holes in the sky

the smallest one

begins to sigh

his magical imagination

beginning to die

they come up with theories looking miles away

about the suns and planets, about where they lay

the sky full of stars seemed dead and cold

a place once so magical now hurt to behold