Every other night, she sits on a forgotten field, under a lost sky- as full of stars as it shall be. With an old brook, far away, flowing through the creek and crevice with some mountains, standing still in the stillness of the night- she feels small, as small as she must.
What good shall it serve to be brimming with pride in a world so surreal?
Every other night, the moon shines, just as it has shone since the fall of the very first night- It is amusing how, each day, we mock its beauty with our old oil lamps!
Every other night, she lets the grass grace her bare skin, as the wind flows through her unkempt tresses. She lets the insects crawl on the hind of her hands as the crickets sing in a forlorn sweet chorus.
Every other night, she finds herself in all that is lost!