Before the Starchild Fell to Earth

Oct 25

Every evening, when the sun begins to sink, the crows rise from the fields near my home. Hundreds of them — a black wave across the sky, their cries spilling through the air like a storm breaking open. It’s loud, alive, and strangely comforting. People call it eerie, but I find peace in it. Their noise feels raw, unapologetic, unafraid of being dark. For me, it’s belonging.

It was during one of those dusks that Starchild came to me. I wrote the poem for my anthology Before the Day Kills the Night, never planning to turn it into anything else. But it stayed with me. Out of all my poems, this one refused to stay silent. When I began making music, it was the first I chose to bring into sound — my first song.

The Starchild is a creature without a place. He doesn’t belong to earth, yet the sky has exiled him. Once made of light, now he walks disguised as a golden wolf, wandering between worlds that no longer claim him. His sky has betrayed him — shut him out, forgotten his name.

To me, he’s what it feels like to become whole — to uncover who you truly are, and in doing so, to lose the comfort of belonging. Sometimes self-discovery is not enlightenment but exile. There’s a shadow of Lucifer in him too — not the monster from scripture, but the luminous being cast down for knowing too much of himself. The fall, seen from his side, isn’t punishment. It’s awakening.

When I turned the poem into a song, I realized the fall was still happening, I wanted to keep that tension — the ache of remembering your origin while learning to live without it. The synths breathe like distant stars, and the rhythm moves the way the crows move at dusk: wild, insistent, alive with mourning and defiance. A few lines from the final verse of tthe poem remained almost unchanged; they are the spine. The sky he came from is closed to him now. He looks up and it does not answer.