I live in a city—a vast one.
At night I climb to my terrace
and look up, but no stars appear.
Sometimes the moon drifts into view,
yet the stars remain hidden.
I asked why the sky is empty.
They said it is light pollution—
the city’s lamps scattering upward,
a false glow that drowns the heavens,
outshining the faint fire of stars.
When I was young, I lived in a village.
Each night my father and I lay on our backs
on the terrace, gazing at constellations—
Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Orion,
Taurus, Gemini, Scorpius, and more.
My children have never seen such skies.
They know stars only from planetariums.
One weekend, I took them to my village,
which has changed little over the years.
That night we lay beneath the open sky,
and I showed them constellations,
even a fleeting shooting star.
They were thrilled, and so was I.
I must take them back more often,
so they may learn to love the night,
and the quiet truths of nature.
