There must have been a time when we didn’t have words for it,
When it had no name yet, the silver creature in the night sky.
A mystic monster, while having no claws nor fangs,
Has kept us tortured—haunted—
Ever since the first time we raised our heads.

Did Minotaur look at the Moon once, too?
When he waited for his redeemer in the labyrinth,
Wondering, would his redeemer be like him?
Who was that woman, the face that Salome saw,
Before she kissed the cold lips of John the Baptist?
A ghostly young Moor wandered the streets, he sang,
‘There is no cure for my sadness, except for death with no return.’

I hear them calling it many names,
Madness and lunacy…
But the Moon does not speak; it never has.
Even if it did, it spoke in a language I do not cypher.

I could not remember the first time I saw the Moon.
Has the time come, we’ve lost the words for it?
The sound of its name chimes no more.
When I look up all I hear is a gloomy voice,
‘What is there to look anyway?’
A lifeless rock.

Feel free to **** the Moon,
Mutilate it with sense and reason.
The Poet screamed and woke,
For they saw the Moon dying in their dream.
‘Who killed the Moon?’ The Poet cried, in anguish,
The silver creature was covered in red,
As red as the first drop of blood of the month,
As red as the flesh born out of a woman’s womb.
A crow came and announced its death.

What is there to look anyway?
If the silver creature offers no answer,
But just a question only the Moon knows.
Sure, it is also in your heart; it always has been.
But you do not know the ring of it
Until you’ve seen the Moon for the first time.

‘I must seek it, go find it.’ Said the Poet.
So the music of the Spheres praised, ‘Onwards!’
So the Goddess who shape shifts pointed her finger,
So the winged serpents held candles in their mouths,
And lit up the way to the underworld.

I’ve head the Poet’s story many times,
A wandering.
How they walked the Valley of the Shadow,
How they passed the Gates of the Castle,
Heart burning like a fire with sorrow, seeking,
For one night, for a thousand years.
‘What thing could I find that served as my landmark?’
The legendary King sat and wept,
And admitted to his defeat by the inevitable fate.
Was it not a scene, though?
The bricks and the foundations, examined under the moonlight.

So riding on a thousand eyes the silver creature rises,
And hides behind the dark clouds,
After shedding its pale light for one last time
On the cold face of the dead Poet.
The Moon is reborn.