August Moon.

Plutocrat, august moon. Golden fires from lost stars in
your chandelier, a hall that was for the pantocrator. The
steward left for home, submerged in the crowded city,
something of a good sense is left. The story sails the wind,
trophies are your favourite futilities, thousands of them.

The wall between you and the sky, if clouds would be like
cows and grazing on the blue line of your terrace, than
take it as a compliment. August moon, this is a golden dream.
When do we understand, you are nature. East, west, south and
north, and tomorrows. A penny for your thoughts, autocrat.