The night is new and the noises that once hummed dull in the swamp grow heated. There are songs in the treetops and promises made, heads bent close together like the boughs. And above the swamp, the sky is only slightly murky, giving a wayward view of the stars through the branches. They pay witness to all that unfolds in Matope, worlds away but sympathetic enough to lend their light everstill.
There are wishes made and praise given by those not so busy to look up. Not all that live in the swamp have the time to admire the sky when they are quarreling for their lives. For as many lovers as there may be in the night, just as many are weeping. Just as many screaming. The swamp is a mother and a killer. She eats her young sooner than she would exalt them.
And oh, there is so much wrong with the world, but it is as beautiful as any other star in the sky. One of those celestial beings detaches itself from the tapestry of the void and falls before it can fade away, burning bright in a universe that leans toward chaos and darkness.
