What a curious blue he is,

whose stars beg me to come deeper,

whose endless bounds govern my existence.

How am I to be sought by Him?

I am a bird who’s always flown high,

seeing the ground at a distance, as a whole,

weeping at the barrenness I see there.

If you looked from here, you would weep too.

I stay close to the portrait that exists but wasn’t painted.

I admire every brushstroke.

They are the ground and the sky,

and the closer I look, the deeper they beckon.

The stars whisper for me to look closer

so that I might find myself wanting.

The ground, however, tells me also to look closer,

but to look critically, so that I might not care for its depth.

You, though, are a bird that flies low,

far from the canvassed sky.

You see only the fine details of the world,

and they seem to satisfy

or (more appropriately) distract you.

You weep, but you don’t know why.

If I flew through the same wasteland as you,

I would weep too

The ground has made you ignorant to the stars’ begging,

and you mistake that ignorance for a lack of existence,

not of you, but of the depth of the sky that you see so broadly.

But what if the sky were as deep as it is?

​

Fly with me into the night where the stars call so desperately.

We will follow either those calls

or the blind faith by which we hear them

We will discover whether it ends at its beginning as you say it does,

or its end is just as nonexistent as it’s beginning has ever been.

Seek and weep with me.

How we are sought.