When the ruler of sky bled her first life,
The first chance of her starry reign,
Blessed by the stars and moons,
Did her blood made a constellation?
Yes, it did
And it is beautiful,
And it is terrible.
It bears nothing but a dead tale
That is born with the beasts’
Snapping, wet jaws and grim grins,
And a spoiled Milky Way.
Last night, Canis Minor and Canis Major
Had been lapping up her stardusts,
The aftermath of her first death,
As their hellfire howls echo across the galaxy.
Their wickedness had sung the queen to sleep.
The song robbed her bones and organs,
Mercilessly and carelessly and horribly.
There is no denial in the fact
That if a star is born to burn,
So will us, and so will her
Eight more times.
This is the queen’s first constellation,
Soon to be faded behind the sunlight,
Yet always to be remembered through the moonlight.
And now, the sun is rising.
Wake up, little eighth star soul.
-- by cc