I

The world cries big,
salty tears. It dovels
with closed eyes,
clutching its head
in its hands,
hiding its face.

It dreams
broken dreams,
remembers a past
that is dead, hoping
in a future
that will never come.

Cry, dear world,
big, salty tears.
Wrinkle your fault-lines
with trembling,
boil the seas.
And the stars ask:
"Who will come
and comfort
this big, blue world?"

II

Falling through space,
a simple satellite
among the billions
orbiting the stars,
with its brother
and sister planets.

But it’s slowing down,
drawing closer
to this big ball of fire.
Its oceans fling
salty waves onto the beaches,
and the moon draws
the tears up above
to the white cliffs of Dover,
sending them wailing
and shrieking into the void.
"Who will come?
Who will comfort this
big, blue world?" asks the stars.