I used to dream my hands could touch the moon,
That its distance isn’t more than a foot,
But reality isn’t so,
So I told my imagination to stay put.
Instead I’d raise my eyes,
Let them rest upon its dazzling beauty,
And thinking that in doing so I could reach the light,
That makes the night sky look pretty.
One evening I had a surprise visitor,
Just after I turned off the light to my room,
The moonlight beamed past the curtains of my windows,
Lifting my small space from its gloom.
After that I sensed a mutual affection,
That I wish I’ve figured out soon—
That when I was trying to reach the moon,
It was actually trying to reach me too.