People judge you when you’re young,
They ask and ask things that can’t be seen,
Maybe the morning dew will do me good, it seems.

They criticize you for changing, for smiling, or for crying,
And when you look up and see the moon shining,
You think, “Yes, she’ll always be watching.”

Moon, what will become of me when I get lost here?

I’ve spent these days dreaming of my despair,
Believing I was remembering when I was just sad and unaware.

I wake up each night at twelve, and think of destiny as a subject in my life,
Look at it as it cuts like a knife.

How can one know it all at eighteen but nothing at twenty-four?
And you try to stop, but your home is your room, nothing more.

How long must I heal? How long must I cry?
It’s so tiring just to think, to question, and to sigh.

And in the mirror, my reflection darkens each morning,
Be careful what you see reflected, or at least that’s what the gypsy warned me.

Moon, what will become of me when I get lost here?

I had so much to dream tonight,
I’m afraid to think of how I’ll end, so I wake in the middle of the night,
Trying to surrender, only to fail again.

How can one know it all at eighteen but nothing at twenty-four?
I’m dying to see it, but in my room, I just read some more.

And among all the dreams I had tonight,
I wonder if they’d miss me when I slip away from sight,
I wake up, and I reflect on what seemed like a dream in flight.

How could I believe I knew it all at eighteen, but nothing at twenty-four?
And if you want to see me, if you truly want to see,
I’ll be dreaming with tears in my room, endlessly.