We built Arinsal among the stars,
not for glory—
but to forget.

A ribbon of steel in a velvet black,
it hums like memory,
slow and off-key.

Inside,
the lights never flicker,
but the silence does.
It echoes laughter we don’t recall,
names we erased
to make room for survival.

We planted glass trees in its atrium,
transparent branches reaching nowhere,
growing reflections
instead of leaves.

The windows don’t show stars—
only what we’ve lost:
a blue planet
we once called mother,
now too distant to mourn properly.

Arinsal spins.
A satellite of solitude,
curving endlessly around
a purpose no one speaks aloud.