The moon, in the day,
is a peculiar sight.
Its beautiful radiance,
the light can not fight
the truth of the moon’s say.
The day, the sun’s domain,
hangs weary upon
the nightwatchman’s guide.
Does he not love his bride?
Does he truly wish her to be forgone?
So selfish; a fiery lie inhumane.
The moon does not impose her will
on the night like that of her mate
on the day. A mere presence,
where needed, her pleasance,
given gratefully. So I will await
the signs her beauty instilled,
accepted, in all times.
The Moon, in the day, was a peculiar sight.