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by George Freek A thousand tiny stars pass over my hatless head. It's a parade of the dead. The sky is like a book, astronomers can read. It satisfies their need, but what is it saying to me? When a shooting star fades to nothing, I'm filled with nervous regrets. That star is what we're made of. It starts to rain. As that star faded to nothingness, I cover my head, but I walk home soaking wet. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved.
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