Not caring about the stars above,
Even the moon was jealous of us.
I write carelessly, even when I would make mistakes,
I’ll be making a masterpiece of out of the spoiled cake.
In the end, I’ll be summarizing it into something esoteric,
The universe is overseeing my magic.
I’ll be writing about the withering of the flowers,
As for me beauty exists in things destroyed.
There are twinkling stars above,
When one tumble you wish and accept love.
Is it possible to adore the dying,
Or write for the bird who isn’t flying?
In the passing of someone precious,
It’s also a thing perpetrated by the divine.