Ballade

Glowing, the far-off, red-stained planet spars
nightly with Saturn, drawing close to tie
into a triangle of heavy bars
it to itself with Spica where they fly
in the Southwest, too large for us, too high.
Watching, I wonder, What does this portend?
What sort of war does bright and virile Mars
wage against Saturn, making him defend
some unknown prize that must in Virgo lie?

If there were answers found among the stars,
then I would turn my face up to the sky,
like as a child to fireflies in jars,
and I would ask the Heavens, Who am I?
Why do I live? And Why may I not die?
Why do I long for those who, in the end,
scorn or ignore me, leaving me with scars,
while for so many souls who call me friend,
I can feel nothing, even though I try?