We built up the logs.
Crumpled up the work of local journalists.
Stuffed the often inaccurate literature
Inside the model of an Indian dwelling.

I twisted on the gas.
Pulled the trigger.
Touched the lit torch to the paper.

The pile was instant engulfed.
Fiery fingers stretching out.
To warm my sisters and I.

We lay on the ground.
Thoughts inside our heads
Spilling out from our mouths.
Like water from a fountain.

We stared up at the sky.
Seeing the stars.
Thoughts of all the far away places our lives will take us
Going around my head.

We pretend we know
What is happening.
Where we are going.
What is out there.

But we really can't comprehend
What the future may hold.
It is something we can't touch.

Just like the stars above