In the theatre above, where sands speak in ancient tongues,
An aria of crimson curtains drawn—Mars, misnamed, misled—
A tapestry woven with the sighs of dormant stars,
Underneath, your heart beats an unsuspecting tempo.
Whisper the winds their secrets untold, in craters of longing,
Where waterless dreams continue to fight for scent of sky,
Each poise a missed note in the concerto of dust,
The Milky Way, a murmuring blush cradled by silence.
And there, beneath the veil of untraversed time,
Lies the cadence of a warrior’s melancholic song,
Gather the notes scattered like perplexing echoes,
Dance with Jupiter, with Saturn’s shimmering lie.