This morning
"my house being now all stilled"
— St. John of the Cross
I lay in a bed of shooting stars,
Fading lost wishes from lonely nights.
Many times the dark consumed my sight,
Till a heavenly spark ignited my soul.
Short-lived but truest hope broke through,
Making this bed of joy and despair.
Isn’t all good, all heaviness fated to die,
Like shimmering shooting stars in the sky?
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