Choose the color like a speaker to chooses the words,
choose the brush like a designer to chooses the fabric,
I slowly stare straight ahead at
the starry night.
The light in a small village gets out, and
it quietly exists.
The night itself slowly shade in a dark
like spilled ink wets a sheet of blank paper.
Rich and strong violet, maybe blue or greenish
bear hug the stars and the moon.
The flow of energy is spurting from their murmuring.
They expose the secret of the darkness.
Their whispers hung around the stars all night.
The sticky night like dipped brush with paint
has smashed to pieces.
The starry night I have
on my fingertips.