The moon is neither trash nor lady;
she just borrows light, she’s the mirror
both of daylight gold and what is shady.
She’s both silence and the howls
of wolves; she’s more a whore than lady.
The moon is madness and the joy
of learning; she’s what’s given gladly
and a silent thief of parish silver.
She is muse of poems, singing madly
both from battlefields and meadows.
I’m in love with moon. I hate that lady.
February 25, 2017