Glazed in nebula fog, the
whisper of Phobos glows softly.
I write under the pale light of wandering suns,
adrift continents of shadow and light.
Across the spiral depths, echoes with no ear,
dancing on stellar winds—a silent
Esperanto of atoms caught in celestial embrace.
Each pixel a universe, spinning in solitude.
Enclosed, my thoughts, fragile beams of
kinship, drifting—seeking solace in void's palindrome.