In this 7th poetry collection the poet seeks for her voice and her lost muse. Her verses seem to have vanished and she keeps failing to rediscover them. On her way to new revelations, she looks back on the past, craving for those old days. "The hush of the pen world" is torturing her slowly but in the end, the poet makes peace with the new times that have knocked on her door.
Vermilion stars dance above us.
If just one could fall
to cut this darkness, and colour
it in iridescent shades;
mutilate this gloom with
those sparkling blades.
They keep dancing, though;
forgetting we're not
of steel; nor are we made of copper
nothing we do is ever proper;
every attempt is abortive
funder this sky, are we captives?
Oh, vermilion stars!