Beautiful

When the first light cometh,
after a dark night
spent catching a fleeting star,
my head was heavy and dim.

The effort bore no fruit.

And so
no pyrolite inflamed the velvet sky,
though the moon was round and bright.

I still wanted to say
-empty handed of a star for a diamond ring-
your face is beautiful.

But a tired voice kept mute.
Voice went,
finally,
to bed.