Upon the Mirror’s Heavenly Tapestry
Upon a lake of glass, so still, it caught the breadth of twilight’s eye,
There stood a lone Observateur, whose heart in silent awe was cast,
Bewitched by boundless galaxies, entangled in the here and vast.
No vessel bore his mortal frame, no trusted guide to chart his course,
But in that sphere where light danced free, he read the cosmos as his source.
Each shimmer spoke a tale untold, each glimmer born of ancient fire,
And wrapped within the midnight’s cloak, he sought the shape of his desire.
“Oh, mirror deep,” he softly mused, “reflect the self I’ve yet to find,
For in your depths, I hope to glean the truths that haunt my wandering mind.”
The stars above, like scattered seeds, sown careless in the fields of night,
Seemed to pulse with secret dreams, as if to mock his mortal plight.
He traced the constellations’ weave, their patterns etched in astral ink,
A cosmic map, a riddle penned beneath the heavens’ endless brink.
Each cluster held a whispered hope, a prophecy in silence spun,
An allegory spun of light—of what was lost and what’s begun.
Through stretches vast of sapphire dark, his gaze did pierce the cold expanse,
He danced with nebulae unseen, entranced within his starry trance.
The lake below, a faithful scribe that held each fragment of the sky,
Reflected not just distant fire, but mirrored back his soul’s own cry.
Within that glassy firmament, his visage wavered, frail and still—
A man adrift in space and time, uncloaked, exposed beneath the chill.
Was he but stardust on the wind, a fleeting spark from ancient flame?
Or did he harbor deeper cores, unshaken by the vastness’ claim?
At length he spoke in whispered breath, as though the night could hear his plea:
“Am I the son of silent worlds, or child of chance and destiny?
Is there a script that guides my steps, or do my feet make paths alone,
In forests dense of dreams unsaid, where shadows weep and light has flown?”
Yet in that quandary, doubt dissolved as dawn unfurled its roseate veil,
The stars that once had seemed aloof now bowed beneath the morning pale.
And in their fading, he perceived a promise softly, sweetly told—
That though the night retreats from day, the heart may find its dreams of gold.
Then sudden from his lips there came a laugh, a sound so pure and light,
That birds awoke and trilled along the edges of the burgeoning light.
No longer prisoner to the dark, nor captive to the silent deep,
He found within the mirror’s glass the soul he’d vowed for years to keep.
For hope, he learned, is born anew each time the night yields to the morn,
And quests for self are journeys made where light and shadow both are worn.
The boundless sky might still perplex, the lake might hold a thousand gleams,
But in that moment by the shore he bathed his spirit in their streams.
Oh, gentle lake! Oh, starry dome! You taught the man who sought to know
That in vastness dwells a tender spark, a seed of self that dares to grow.
So through the ripples of the day and silence of the evening reigns,
He walks, at last, with steady step, unbroken by his former chains.
No longer merely Observateur, but soul alight with newfound grace,
He moves as one restored from dreams, his fears dissolved without a trace.
And as the sun ascends its throne, and paints the sky in hues so fair,
He knows that in the endless sky, his own star shines forever there.
