where the writers are

Wendy Beamish's Writings

  Sometimes between my dreams in the deep hours of night. I hear the stars whisper that I have the soul of a star. They whisper you are wrong for Earth, too tender, too fiery, too wise. Confused I awake, longing for stars. Bright, beautiful, brilliant - they are strangely melancholic - they softly, sweetly, sing sweet blue notes. Your planet is dying,...