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Wings
Natasha, Age 14, San Diego, CA

Stars are like twinkling diamonds, in the eternal ring of the heavens; a sparkling dreamer’s trinket.

Each star is a different color, each a piece of the galaxy’s rainbow. Stars are made of gas; a swirling mix of dust and magic—a gypsy’s crystal ball that illuminates the sky, and pierces the hard black eyes of the night—a prelude to day. Dancing on the distant horizon, they play like pixies, laughing at me—an earthbound mortal, bound by flesh and blood, tied to the dingy soil between my toes—a dreamer still waiting for her wings.

I look at the sky and wish that I could be a part of it, enfolded in the velvet arms of the night. A beautiful cloak, sewn by the angels, edged with pure silver stitches. Someday I’ll touch the night, finally an angel with wings.

 

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