VIII of Pentacles

And there, on the edge of the city, between the woods and the terraced houses: the gypsy camp, draped in mist and dying sunlight.
Dave sat on a fallen tree near the riverbank, guitar on his knee, playing while Marisa sang. Some of the others gathered around, to ogle Marisa, listen to the music or just avoid the washing-up. Marisa liked singing songs by Shakira. Dave didn’t mind; he could play anything he wanted on the guitar when he was alone in his caravan. He shared with a couple of girls who were on the game, and they were often out at work.
It was long after dark when his caravan-mates came back; Dave slung the guitar over his back, like a soldier with his rifle, and greeted them with a smile and cheap vodka.
“Les étoiles meurent,” Kacey said (her full name was Kazandra). “Regarde le ciel; les étoiles meurent.”
“What?” Dave said. “You can’t see the stars from here, there’s too much city.” But he wondered; could he not see the stars because of the city, or because they really were dying?