In the womb of a midnight nebula,

where silence hums in colours unseen,

a breathless hush cradles particles of becoming—

dust dreaming of light,

Whispers of gravity, knitting bones

from the marrow of the void.

There, in that velvet obscurity,

a pulse stirs—

a flicker, a gasp—

The first heartbeat of a star.

A furnace of memory ignites,

Forging gold from ghostly hydrogen,

a clandestine alchemy

That remembers the kiss of the infinite.

The star learns the ancient dance—

a radiance spun from patience,

Each photon is a hymn

Travelling centuries to kiss

The cheek of an unborn world.

But even stars must tire.

At the dusk of its brilliance,

its belly swollen with iron and finalities,

The star trembles—

a shudder,

a symphony of endings.

And then—

The supernova:

a blossom of ruin,

an ecstatic undoing

that seeds the cosmos

With the ash of itself.

In that violence,

Life begins again.

Scattered across the cathedral of night,

those embers of star-flesh

sail through time,

seeding planets,

bones,

blood,

breath.

We, too,

are the echo of that explosion—

a constellation folded inward,

skin stitched from sky.

In every pulse of our veins,

the stars remember themselves.

We are remembering.

And when we die—

We do not perish.

We scatter,

like them,

into the waiting dark,

to be gathered anew

In the secret forge

of another dawn,

another star,

another soul.