On a rare starry night
dead silence prevailed,
with them all unsheathing
their very own plight.
The moon turns envious,
as she appears in sight,
for it is but a torn kite
before she in her own right.
She turns her records on,
echoing in the silence,
let the humming commence,
all are safe and all are sound thence.
As they all sink in the tune
She confides in the moon,
in the planned secrecy,
she confesses how she
loathes his absency,
even more than
she loathes to admit this.
