Humbled by the Universe

She exhales the cruel words of hurt,
that rise and fall like gentle
leaves in the wind.
Hoping it flows my way through
the constellations of my peaceful dream.
As if the stars of my dreamworld no longer
waits to reveal themselves so impatiently
after the midnight storm.

I look up and see the Nightingale
so bright against the universe,
flapping its wings as she turns
the earth away from the moon.

I get the chills through my sleeping body,
looking up to an angel so pure
that she hid herself in cloaks of darkness.
Not even her own gods can see their lightness,
their own creation inside her bird-like eyes.

She told me I will waste my days dreaming
because time and existence are a flat circle,
twirling around in endless parade
of empires that rise and falls with the day.

I was hurt to know that I am not special,
no one is. I have no purpose, there are
no gods or miracles left in the world.
Nothing sown in the dirt are rooted forever.
She said that our bones are made to dust,
as the highest king and queen
will also return to the ground.
So the lowliest peasants have
nothing to worry about.

We all flap our soul-like wings
to the same sky in the end.
We are all hand in hand next to each other
like songbirds hatching from the earth
for the first and last time again and again.

She said to "Let my soul fly and you'll be happy,"
and that's good enough for me.
Ego, who would burn the world with the fires of her love, what more do you need to achieve?

Then I woke up smiling.