I can but see a modicum of stars
Through this infernal haze; and I'm aware
That most of them are satellites, which bars
Me wishing on them. But somewhere up there
They're all still shining, I have to believe;
And so, though I receive from them no light,
I will, by their imagined gracious leave,
Utter a wish now, at the start of night.
I pray that she is warmer than I am,
Happier too, though not unhappy I;
And whatsoever blessings fate can cram
Into a life under this orange sky
I wish them for her; and a thousand such
Descended all on her, were not too much.
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