Handwritten, Calligraphic Postcards from Sirius, Mars

No skies, no stars to fall tonight
No wishes promised they will happen
They say it’s Sirius, they say it’s Mars
and I keep traveling – counting the hours.
The waves are crashing inside my head
my hands are craving some kind of passion –
if Sirius, Mars do understand
they look at me with great compassion.
Hundreds of mes and shes and hers
Hundreds of questions left unanswered
a tiny dot, fuzzy and pale
lights up the dark, in night time fashion.
Naturally, I close my eyes
I'm lowering down my wooden towers
I'm giving in to Sirius, Mars,
and to the songs of pretty sirens.
My head's rough seas are now calm
My hands adorned with little stars
Sirius, Mars send their regards
in handwritten, calligraphic postcards.