If I Were a Star
The Constellation of Lament
If I Were a Star
O Muse of flame who breathed the stars from clay,
Come now and shape my speech to burning form,
That I may speak of light turned dark with gray.
Let every star that guides the sailor’s storm
Attend my grief as one who weeps above
The ruined walls where prophets cry in swarm.
If I were Sirius, flame of southern seas,
I’d howl where dust has swallowed song and seed,
And famine walks with no one left to please.
The mothers hush the dead before they feed,
And cradle ash with arms that once knew birth—
The sky looks down, but sends no rain to heed.
If I were Vega, harp of summer’s light,
I’d shine upon the plains where chains grow tight,
Where language drowns beneath a scripted rite.
There, silence drinks the hymns too weak to rise,
And every tongue repeats what none confess—
The soul is judged beneath unlistening skies.
Were I Aldebaran, eye that watches flame,
I’d mourn the grove where fruit once bowed with grace,
Now burned and buried under blood and blame.
The children play where walls have lost their face,
And fig trees twist like widows left to moan—
The covenant has scattered into space.
If I were Betelgeuse, with crimson fire,
Hung o’er the bones of lands once clothed in green,
I’d mourn the song of roots consumed by ire.
The trees, once priests in templed light unseen,
Now fall as ash to gold’s infernal pyre—
The forest’s breath becomes a widow’s keen.
Were I Canopus, guide of shadowed wave,
I’d cast my gaze where tents replace the stone,
And breath is traded for what bread might save.
There, famine learns the color of the bone,
And water dreams of rivers long erased—
The stars look down, yet still they stand alone.
If I were Polaris, throne that does not turn,
I’d watch the north where rulers rise and fall,
And every crown is forged from what we burn.
The kings decree, yet cannot hear the call
Of widows stacking stones where sons once stood—
Their thrones are built on bones and temple wall.
They drink the blood and name it holy good,
Then preach in gold what cannot feed the poor—
They cast the lamb and sanctify the wood.
O Lord of stars, whose breath commands the flame,
Why dost Thou let the light endure such woe?
Why doth the righteous perish in Thy name?
I saw the earth as fireflies below,
Each flicker lost to ash, each hope resigned—
Yet from the cinders rose a subtle glow.
A child with chalk drew stars the blind might find,
A hymn half-sung beneath a shattered dome,
A seed that wept, but would not be unkind.
So spoke the stars to those with ears to hear,
And though their fire was distant, they did cry—
Their orbits drawn by judgment’s burning sphere.
One called for peace, one wept where children lie,
One mourned the groves where fire devoured trust,
One sang above the prayers that passed them by.
Yet none turned back the wheel that grinds to dust,
Though stars still stood, unmoved upon their post—
Their witness sworn, their silence still robust.
Then sing, O soul, though night may veil thy way,
Though towers fall and truth is sold as spoil—
The stars remain to mark the hidden day.
For judgment walks not always shod in toil,
And mercy hides in folds of darkest night—
Lo, heaven waits beyond this mortal soil.
So if I were a star, I’d burn for right,
And shine upon the wounds none else recall—
A spark to keep the soul from endless night.
If I were Antares, heart of coiled sting,
I’d burn above the lands where blood is sown,
And kings arise with war upon their wing.
Where lies are bred as wheat and widely blown,
And mothers kneel beside their children’s graves—
There Antares watches thrones of sharpened stone.
If I were Achernar, where rivers cease,
At southern edge where sky begins to weep,
I’d cry above the lands that thirst for peace.
The rains depart, the ocean climbs to reap,
The trees fall not by hand but by despair—
Creation gasps in silence, cold and deep.
If I were Spica, bearer of the wheat,
I’d look upon the fields where harvests fail,
And labor reaps the bitter root, not sweet.
The workers bend beneath a broken scale,
Their wages stolen by the unseen hand,
While justice sleeps behind a rusted veil.
Were I Fomalhaut, the lonely eye of sea,
I’d shine where islands drown without a name,
And waves reclaim the homes of memory.
Where winds have torn the chapel from the frame,
And prayers are cast adrift like shattered shells,
I light the grief no magistrate can tame.
Altair I’d be, the bridge from soul to soul,
Whose flight once linked the sacred and the clay,
Now broken by the iron tongue of control.
And I, as Deneb, wing in northern gray,
Would weep where saints are scorned for light they bring,
And martyrdom wears feathers scorched by day.
If I were Capella, lantern cold with pride,
I’d blink above the lands where comfort reigns,
While just beyond, the widow is denied.
Where wealth builds gates and silences the chains,
And ease forgets the cries beyond its glass,
Capella mocks the pain it entertains.
If I were Rigel, sword beneath the belt,
I’d burn where strength has bowed its iron will,
And watch as valiant oaths in silence melt.
Where once the sword stood firm upon the hill,
Now hesitation reigns where justice slept—
The battle lost before the blood could spill.
The towers rose, but truth was never kept,
And in their courts the scales were carved from fear—
The righteous wept, but law had not yet wept.
Were I Arcturus, elder star austere,
I’d race ahead of dawn with warning flame,
And blaze through time for hearts too dull to hear.
My light outruns the folly men acclaim,
Yet none will lift their eyes to skyward scrolls—
They praise the dust, and mock the sacred name.
I speak to kings who bargain for their souls,
To prophets sold for gain beneath the dome—
Who touch the Ark but will not pay the tolls.
If I were Regulus, the lion’s throne,
I’d shine where scepters glitter over graves,
And crowns are forged from blood instead of stone.
I’d watch the lords whose wealth the widow braves,
Who feast while children gnaw the edge of bread—
Who build their walls from laborers they enslave.
Their temples rise, yet every prayer is dead;
They tithe the leaf but crush the root below—
And call their lust anointed as it spreads.
If I were Procyon, the voice before,
I’d cry before the thunder shakes the land,
And weep for warnings lost to locked heart-doors.
I shine where seers once spoke with lifted hand,
But now are cast as madmen in the street—
Their cries like wind ignored upon the sand.
The fire comes, yet none will leave their seat,
They dance beside the fuse they dare not name—
And drape their ruin in a gospel sheet.
Were I Castor, twin of light once sworn,
I’d weep for brother bound in broken oath,
And mourn the bond that time and rage have torn.
And I as Pollux, pledged to follow both
To Hades and the stars again in turn—
Would carry half a soul through life and growth.
Together once, now parted at the urn,
They speak as nations split by flags and race,
As churches where their founders never learn.
If I were Bellatrix, the left-hand grace,
I’d burn for all the battles never fought,
For exiled daughters cast from holy place.
Where strength is clothed in silence wrongly taught,
And voices meant to build are left unsung—
I shine for justice they were never brought.
The warrior’s hand, though trembling, still is young—
Yet she is told to bow, not rise and stand—
Her sword is dulled, her trumpet left unstrung.
Now all have spoken—none withheld their hand.
Each flame has cried; each orbit bore its woe.
The sky itself awaits the last command.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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verse, possies, sonnets, and short stories 