In this universe where stars collide halfway through their pits, in this world engulfed in tainted darkness and painted laughters, and in this poetry written in voices of constellations... where are we?
Are we the universe, or the world, or the constellations?
Are we one of those screeching voices?
Thirty five years of flipping pages, counting numbers, reading poems, and collecting winners. thirty five years of different versions of success and countless failures. thirty five years of both ups and downs, silent downfalls, and felicitous celebrations.
The stars walking their way out the door to share the light they once spurred inside, simply shows how the second home could push growth within those children's hearts. they are like a gem that was once a chunk of coal that did well under pressure.
A second home that stood up for thirty five years, to write a paragraph of winners, and to create a collection of stars. that even when the sun says hello, their light still remains living within their soul, not having a chance to bid goodbyes.
In this universe where stars collide halfway through their pits, there are stars still finding their face to shine. in this world engulfed in tainted darkness and painted laughters, there are stories that won't speak up for themselves. there are students who smile their lips so wide or cry themselves to sleep, and teachers who laugh their eyes so true or wipe their tears to hide.
The words are carefully crafted with the voices of constellations. and what if we are the stars... and the voices is ours?
We've made the paragraphs in a poem that's ours, and we are the light that surpassed the bulking darkness. we've made the thirty five years of its incandescent existence. a home of winners, passing of failures, and drive through success.
And the poetry written in voices of constellations... blcis, a composition, by the coruscating light of blcians.
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