The stars sonnet

The poem “The Stars’ Sonnet” is an image of a still night where the moon and stars come to life to tell us a story which has no end or beginning. The poem speaks of magic, thoughtfulness, and the spooky comfort of nature during moments of stillness. As the stars fade and the sky begins to cry, the poem gives one the impression of hope — that with each ending there comes the spark of something new.

The stars sonnet 
It was a beautiful night 
And the moon was quite a sight
Illuminating the dark 
and fill the empty souls with the light they lack
And in that passing moment 
when the stars gathered to tell a sonnet
They layer side by side
Lulled to numb by the tide

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Under the open sky
With the creatures that came to spy
They listened to the story foretold 
about a forbidden love in the days of old
Ans when the story was done
And the stars were gone
and the sky begin to cry
And mourn the loss of hearts that try
But they seemed fascinated by the hope they learned
And that was the beginning of another story to be heard.

Let’s paint a scenario…

It was December in Nigeria — the time of year when city people return to their villages in droves. The roads were dusty, the harmattan wind dry and snapping on the face. They all looked happier, healthier. It was Ada’s first home visit after she had been with the agency, and she didn’t know what to expect.

It was night, and there was no electricity in the village. But unlike in Lagos, where that would have been frustrating and boring, here it was magical. Grandma used to read us folktales by the fire, and now most of the adults are asleep. The children had gone out, some still running around chasing fireflies happily, some already deep asleep with mouths agape on mats.

Ada came and lay on a bamboo mat beside her cousin, Ijeoma. The stars in the sky were brighter than she had ever remembered in her life — unmarked by light or noise from the city. The moon was low and full, casting silver shadows across the thatched cottages. It was dreamlike.

“Ije,” Ada breathed softly, “does it always feel like this here?”

Until you uttered, “Only when you hear,” Ijeoma panted again, smiling.

Both of them stretched out in silence, and let the night tell its own story. There were crickets clicking, frogs croaking in the distance, and occasionally a goat would bleat as if reacting to something only it could understand. Then Ijeoma, in the storyteller’s tone, said something.

“They say the stars tell stories, you know?” she started. “Our grandma once said that every bright star is a heart that used to love too hard.”

Ada laughed. “Sounds like Grandma.”

But she told me this one thing, just one thing, when I was ten. About a young man from our village and his love for a girl from the town down the way. She was of a cursed bloodline — one the elders said was bad luck. They tried once to escape. They were caught. She was exiled, and he—never married. He used to lie here beneath this same sky, waiting, every night.

Ada’s own breath snagged. “Did she ever come back?”

“Nobody knows. But Grandma told me that once, all these years later, the stars were in line and recited a sonnet — a story of love in defiance, of burning even in silence. She said she knew that it was their story.”.

The two cousins lay silently again, this time with ears of the heart. The breeze at night had more than just coldness within it — memory. Pain. Hope. The stars shone as if in concurrence.

When one tear rolled down the cheek of Ada, it was not due to the sorrow. It was the release of emotion that she wasn’t even aware she was harboring.

And so it was in the still contemplation under the gentle glow of stars, that she beheld — stories go on. Love seeds are planted, be it forbidden or not, to grow unobserved. The stars themselves aren’t only reflectors either. They teach us that even during starless darkness, stories of sorrow, of longing, and of hope begin.

Or perhaps that’s the way all new stories have to begin.