The ink of night has stained the page of sky,
And each star is a word I cannot read.
I only know the silence they imply,
I only feel the questions that they seed.
The moon, a half-erased and silver thought,
Hangs between doubt and the belief in light.
A lesson that the centuries have taught,
But can't explain — the beauty of the night.
And I, a scribble in the margin, stand
On the sharp edge of wonder and of dread,
A fleeting word traced by an unseen hand,
A question that is born but never said.
What is this script of stars, of dust, of mind,
If not the dream of a forgotten shore?
And if I'm just the asking, undefined,
Then let the asking be what I am for.
the asking
© Copyright: Алиса Мишина 2, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126052406118
Свидетельство о публикации №126052406118
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