A crooked road is drawn in night’s wide face,
where stars refuse to march in straightened lines;
they stumble through the dark at uneven pace,
like thoughts that twist away from ordered signs.
No perfect circle holds them in its frame,
no rigid law can leash their wandering flame;
they bend the sky until it learns their name,
and carve disorder into sacred claim.
Each point of light a hesitation made,
each break in rhythm where the heavens stray;
a pattern born where symmetry decayed,
and certainty dissolved along the way.
Yet in that bend, a deeper truth appears—
the sky is honest in its crooked spheres.