April 10th — The Night of Running Cats and Star Eyes

April 10th begins at dusk.
It is not a daytime day.
It belongs to the hour
when the sky bruises purple
and the first streetlamp flickers
like a nervous prophet.

This is the night
when all the cats in the neighbourhood
wake up from their daylight disguises
and remember who they truly are.

They run their ancient routes
across garden walls,
over rusted fences,
through the narrow alleys
that humans pretend not to see.

Their paws make no sound,
but their silence is a kind of screaming,
a sharp, invisible cry
that slices through the night air
like a secret only the moon understands.

It is not fear.
It is not pain.
It is the scream of existence itself…
the wild, wordless declaration
that they are alive,
that they are many,
that they belong to no one
and nothing
except the night.

Their eyes shine like stars
that fell too low
and decided to stay.
Two by two,
four by four,
dozens of tiny constellations
moving across rooftops
with the precision of a forgotten ritual.

They look at us
briefly,
knowingly
and in that glance
we see the truth
we spend our days avoiding:

that the world is older than our grief,
wiser than our logic,
and softer than our fear.

The cats run,
and the night runs with them.
Their bodies are shadows
stitched to motion,
their tails thin comets
trailing behind them.

April 10th is their feast,
their pilgrimage,
their cosmic rehearsal.

And as they leap
from roof to roof,
from fence to fence,
from universe to universe,
we feel something loosen in us,
a knot,
a doubt,
a heaviness we mistook for truth.

Because if the cats can run
with star‑bright eyes
and silent screams
through the dark,
then maybe we, too,
can find our way
through the night
that lives inside us.

April 10th ends
with a soft rustle,
a final flick of a tail,
a constellation dissolving
into the dark.

But the echo remains
a whisper of paws,
a shimmer of eyes,
a reminder
that the night is never empty
when the cats are awake.