Shining stars wrapped in flesh and bone,

tied with bright smiles,

topped with eyes of light,

fell to the earth long ago.

In many packages: some tall, some short,

or stout or small,

perhaps fat, perhaps thin,

they burn just the same as the rest.

Fires of gold and red and blue and green,

white or black or violet or yellow,

they cast light of just the same length.

Just the same are these licks of fire,

no matter where they may be

some have sought to stomp out their flames,

but the heat smarts enough to sing a song worthy of a choir.

Stars to gas, gas to fire, fire to ash.

Just the same are these,

yet some sputter into flakes of grey sooner than the rest.

If just the same are these,

where are the helping hands

to guide these stars into the night sky?

If just the same are these,

where are the bright smiles

to stoke the slow burning suns?

If just the same are these,

where are the soft spoken words

to feed the smothered blazes?

Turn ash to fire, fire to gas, gas to stars.

If just the same are these,

why is opportunity snatched from under them?