There’s a star,
In the pitch black sky,
Which shines bright everyday,
Brighter than any source of light,
Which I have seen any day.

It reminds me,
Of the fairy-tales,
I have bid farewell to,
Where rising unicorns,
And shining wings,
Disappeared far above,
Far above in the night sky it seems.

It seems to have,
Forgotten the little child,
Who used to stand in the alleyway,
With one hand,
Raised above her head,
And the other hand,
Clutching her father’s shirt,
Which bore the blood of death.

The dead blood,
Which failed to,
Bring their miseries to an end.
The dead blood,
Which bore her mother,
And her father’s beautiful bend.

The beautiful bend of life,
Where everything was steep,
Sharp and sweet,
Only to eat,
And hunt for happiness,
Which was just,
A cryptic meet,
A fate of life,
The bell of death,
And sleepless nights…