Moon
When the moon travels through the gloomy firmament, hiding the brilliant view of the stars sailing there, and its silvery glow invades the windows, I stay here, while lovers have looked at it for centuries and give it their beloved bright eyes.
If two people who live in different places arrange to look at the moon at the same time, they realize, for a moment they’re far away, but they imagine, in their places, that they are close to each other.
The moon has a sense of lover dates, and if it were a mirror in the sky, believe me, we could see, reflected in it, many faces, from lovers to loners. The moon looks like the storehouse of wishes and dreams, a crystal ball of suppositions dancing in space, and it is often small, growing up, full, or disappearing.
Sometimes the clouds hide it, and the dark night takes care of everything, but its power is so mysterious that it is recognized by lovers, poets, loners, and night walkers because it is floating there, close to them.
For years, mankind has tried to get there, and the feet marked, in its fine powder, without a surprising white, no one living there or enjoying it. A large lamp illuminating the night, a friend of drunks, bandits, lovers hidden in their shadows, and only their eyes move in its direction, they are the only witnesses pointing their vigilance.
How many fantasies around the celestial body, and it continues on its dark walk. The drunk talks to her, sitting on the sidewalk, looking up at the sky, looking for the slowly dancing silver company.
There are marks of the machines that go there in search of adventures, apart from the silly images, the inspirations of poetry that have become a box of imaginations. The moon and the sun, two lovers looking for each other in space.
Moon, moon, moon, how many times you have spent close to me, and how many secrets I told you, and they stayed with you, in the empty space, away from me.
Photo from Photo by David Dibert on Unsplash
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