Have you seen the white faces, the stars on wall of night? Calm they seem, and cold, cold as Arctic light; hot they seem, burning bright into my eyes. New fires bloom there, and stars that lived and died long before an eye could capture light. Behind my prison sight, the sky seems phantom cold, spatial void unbridgeable. But there is more fire than prison eyes can see. Have you seen the cold sky warm to luminous shadows, patterns of things to be? Have you heard the cold clear call, the songs of distant stars? Behind this bloom of lights, voices sing and whispered stories come of deeps beyond, and futures holy light.