the moon sings
with its agonizing
melodies,
carrying burden
of the light from
the sun,
shining from behind.

the moon cries
with the heavens,
still,
the sun right
from behind.

the moon laughs
every metaphor
it gives the sun,
still,
the sun is right
from behind.

the moon
and its sorrow
foster from
such winter,
frail breeze
which chills
the air
that hits the
sun.

and the sun
never saw the
moon,
the moon
never saw the
sun.

but luna
saw it first.

and the star
was never hers.