Oraar

Unto my dearest star,

I profess these few small words:

Why do you burn all through the night?

What prompted you to shine so bright?

They say you are a burning ball,

With no more conscience than the Earth.

Am I silly to write to you?

Am I wrong to think it true

That you might somehow hear these words?

They say that numbers can name your soul,

But they know not, as my letters fly,

This is no plea, but a reply.