It is hard, maybe even
impossible,
to see the stars on a stormy night.
They always glitter in their
ebony bed,
never vanishing, though our
eyes lose sight of them.
The mournful clouds roll in,
weeping, closing up the
atmosphere with their
shadows.
A long way up, the stars
shine on.
A cold wind bites, aggressive,
assaulting the air.
Up above, the heavens
are still.
The storm will rage,
will cry out, will destroy.
When it passes, as
all storms do,
we will glimpse the stars again.
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