(Art by Alfons Mucha)
Where resides the Pole Star?
the only one to have held my hand,
the only one to have brought me this far,
which perhaps now lies buried in mounds of sand,
invisible and forgotten, losing the genial war.
Doth my destiny lie engraved on these stars,
or do my palms whisper through embroidered lines,
or perchance my fate lies giggling through figurines in funny cards,
or maybe it has been sitting behind a codex of numbers all this time?
No hands to grab on to, no silhouettes to follow anymore,
the road has started to end finally, so I grab my tools,
break the land, burn the grass and work my hands sore,
until the ground cries tar, curses at me for being so cruel.
No time to sympathize, the world is a rat race with no finish lines,
these tears hold fire that would burn up the strongest if cried bare,
so along with a watery raincoat the fire shall remain benign,
but fangs and claws roar louder than hunters with minimal fear.
I shall split throats if it may require,
shall burn the iciest glaciers in my crackling fires.
Where do my stars lie? I shall scour the universe entire,
to find an answer, or to find my fate that I so lustily wish to acquire.
The hues of skies never turn darker as they used to,
let me see the Star that shall guide me through perpetual waters,
the sky never changes into hues of crimson, and forever stays blue,
blinds the universe from my eyes as every second it glows brighter.
We are stardust, firstborn of the universe,
yet the skies dare keep us away from the father that bleeds for us,
comatose runs through our veins as with loneliness we live this curse,
frantic and frenzy, trying hard to run away from this maddening chorus.
Lost in a maze that untimely began,
looking for a way out, turning corners in hopes of finding an end,
hopeless and exhausted, running more than we ever ran,
crying desperately, desiring to feel again the warmth of a guiding hand.