There are peculiar stars in the world.
Talking stars set crossings in you.

Seen alive in eyes or yesses.
All of the eyes are your soul behind them.

In peculiar eyes are specific stars.
The world, well, its glories are companions.

Everything seems to disappear.
The river takes the shadow to far abidings.

Tonight, there was no sparrow to set the sun.
From this quiet memory’s reply resurges.

Tonight, there was no moon or star.
Born beyond light’s lambs and limits.