Do you reach through the stars
just to touch their hair;
feel the pillow’s sunken scars
where their heads have laid there?

Graze the tips of their noses
with your soft outline of transparent,
the spot each generation discloses
not one shape too far errant?

Do you love the centuries of breathing
in each matchless breath they take;
their faces a nebulous wreathing
of hundreds of years yet to make?

Are there a thousand angels, your ancestors
gently pulling you back to their sphere;
guarding you, our  sacred investors
and making sure we will always be here?