Last night the stars seemed not themselves,
for they sang such a lonely song
I heard all creation weep along.
And the moon seemed too molten hot—
it burned a hole right through the roof,
right through the sky, it burned
an empty place into the night.
And oh how the world rocked
like a cradle in the ether of the dark.
And how the children, lost in dreams,
awoke with a start, not out of fear
but from surprise. They blinked their eyes
in that starless night, that moonless night,
and cried, though no one heard.
God-Who-Is-Not, give us a lock
of your immortal hair, or give us stars
that we can reach and hang upon the bars
of our despair; give us back the rock
called moon, that still, white face
we write our lives upon. Give us back
our dark hope in its golden case.
About the Author
Maurya Simon was born in New York City and grew up in Europe and Southern California. She was educated at the University of California, Berkeley, Pitzer College, and the University of California, Irvine. In the 1970s and 1990s, Simon lived in South India, where she studied Tamil and pranayama yoga. She’s won numerous awards, including the 2019 IPBA Franklin Awards Gold Medal for her tenth volume of poems, The Wilderness: New and Selected Poems, 1980–2016 (2018). Additional honors include a …