Tell me the story of some distant star,
of a thousand years and a theme that beckons the same.
Here and there comes a blackness near and far,
the canvas of light cast upon a great unknown.
Will they too know God or know some other name,
to be unique in that regard and never alone?
It is ours, that silent walk into the night,
mapping the galaxies by our heavy steps below.
These, the celestial mystery hidden in plain sight,
where the stars never speak or give their reasons.
And neither do we, if the truth is ours to know,
if anything is to be known in these cold seasons.
"Tell us your story", is that not what we said,
and we pause because we have heard it all before.
They are clear and spacious, the stories in our head,
told and re-told so that nothing is wanting more.
We long for something new, for what lies in store,
turning of the pages where all we find is fear.
Here in prayer, in complete address to silence,
we become as love's plaintiff and patient.
Here we speak to hope and pride in our defiance,
deep unto the final argument, awaiting final sentence.
And here we wait at last no more complacent
with the solidarity of simple men's alliance.
Brian Francis Hudon,
March 13, 2023
