On A Starful Spring Night

On a starful spring night
the stars of bright
pop out
from the pre-morning sky,
the north star
a beacon, a lighthouse
pointing to a friend.

But on such nights
as much as I love
contemplating upon my friend,
it is the background stars,
the unfathomably innumerable
stars of the Milky Way
which call to me.

For while the bright
north star and her glittering companions
catch my eyes,
it is their ever present
poorer brothers and sisters
who seek me
calling:

"What about me?
What about me?
I too am a star
who deserves to be bright,
no, who IS bright,
in all my humanity
hidden not by the infinity
of a billion light years of creation
but the ghetto of a mere thousands
of years of human suffering,
prejudice, and greed.
What about me?
What about me?"

The multitudinous poor
reaching out.

Why, calling me?