On the other side of the moon, a woman is sleeping. Her quiet breath stirs our long dark seas.
On the other side of the stars, a woman is wishing, deep in her dreams.
She wishes for forests and fieldmice and peace. It's quiet where she is, so quiet; she hasn't spoken to anyone for three days. She would like to be in a conversation that had space, like the space between the stars, and mysteries, like the oceans on the moons, and magic, like that which illuminates the worlds. But she can not find it, so she sleeps.
Her heart is in tulle, dancing gently. She has words like dirt under her fingernails. The world seems stranger to her than star-shadow and moon-behind - all its fires, ploughed fields, lies. All its meaningless noise. She can not fathom it, so she dreams.
She dreams of community kitchens, free medicines, softly-spoken voices, kings who knock on poor men's doors bearing milk and biscuits. But she knows she will never see it, so she is tired.
Out there in the darkness, alone and unheard. She dreams of a beautiful world.