The Night, by Hugo Contreras

In the night the heavens cry,
perpetually shedding tears
- gleaming, sparkling -
wanting to be seen;
desire of most frail whimpers never heard.

Galaxies reach out to the observer,
never touching, but always felt in presence.
So far away they are, so lonely they seem.
Alas, they crowd the sky
by the millions and fantastic thousands,
for only their loneliness to grow simultaneously greater -
a dark horizon of sadness and despair raying miles and miles away.

Infinitely aware of a man so down below, they always speak out,
though I forget which said what
in the scarcity of my own presence in the universe,
for I am the center of my own realm, yet another tear among lost stars,
waiting to be heard and cured,
too distant to recall another's blue moon dreams.