Night opens above us
like a vast, patient temple.
Stars appear one by one,
quiet fires
older than our questions.
We lift our eyes to them,
thinking we are looking outward,
searching for something distant.
But the longer we gaze
the softer the boundary becomes—
breath slowing,
thought loosening
like clouds drifting apart.
The same silence
that holds the galaxies
settles gently in the chest.
In that moment
discovery turns inward:
the starlight we follow
has always been passing through us.
We are not visitors
to the heavens.
We are their brief awakening—
dust remembering its light,
a small flame of awareness
moving through eternity
that was never separate
from what it sees.
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