The moon has become a dancer
at this festival of love.
This dance of light,

This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
beckons us
to a world beyond
only lovers can see
with their eyes of fiery passion.

They are the chosen ones
who have surrendered.
Once they were particles of light
now they are the radiant sun.

They have left behind
the world of deceitful games.
They are the privileged lovers
who create a new world
with their eyes of fiery passion.

When I was young and bold and strong,
Oh, right was right, and wrong was wrong!
My plume on high, my flag unfurled,
I rode away to right the world.
"Come out, you dogs, and fight!" said I,
And wept there was but once to die.

But I am old; and good and bad
Are woven in a crazy plaid.
I sit and say, "The world is so;
And he is wise who lets it go.
A battle lost, a battle won--
The difference is small, my son."

Inertia rides and riddles me;
The which is called Philosophy.

What makes you go on?

As a singer near your pianissimo?
As a runner near your halfway mark?
As graying hair near your dark, thin veil?

When you face cannons, naught but a swordsman on your horse, how do you charge headlong into the fray?

I can't help but be captivated, an observer seeing something surreal, like time flowing backward, or a fire cool to the touch.

I'm not another species... I am you, minus your enlightenment. So enlighten me.

How is it that, a vicious, peaceful rebel to your circumstances, you charge with a hearty call, you greet death as an old friend, you run harder than you ever had before?

How is it that when your pianissimo comes, you hold the fermata twice as long as you could with air alone?