We’ve seen the setting sun before.
Let it go; this night, too,
will pass across the painted
horizons of our memory.
But listen! The morning star may whisper
our names, even as she fades.
Then leave your heart open
to the dawn, to the wounds of my kisses
and the healing of my embrace.
The glare of day hides every scar,
every star we know
must live in our remembered sky.
Stephen Brooke ©2006