The star is a pearl, it shines, falling like pearl fragments, like grapes, in clusters, and like a drop of water, cool. Though the lump is pale, it too is a clumsy brown pearl; the furrows string it up, decorating the sad earth. Your hand is a star to me, a weak star on my head. My hand is a thick lump, it is dusting there on your heart. Lump, lump, it dusts, a weak star falls, and the sky will become a pearl again, holding our hearts together. Pearl The star is a pearl, as it shines, it flows scattered like tiny fragments, like grapes in clustered rows, and like a dewdrop, cool. Though the clod of earth is pale, it too is a clumsy brown pearl at birth; the furrows line up, decorate the sad ground, quietly divine. Your hand, a star for me, I see a weak star above my head. A huge lump rests in my hand, there it crumbles like sand on your heart. Lumps, lumps, turn to dust, the weak star falls, like everything else, and a pearl rises again in the sky, uniting our hearts in its gentle rule.
