The moon is like a contessa. The black clouds, her fan.
Do you recognize the Earth’s Moon when you see it?
The heavens are full of lights and alarms,
longer light, brighter eyes. A bit of guilt might be our prize.
I knew if I touched my mother, she wouldn’t feel it.
Pardon me if I have become too serious but this has been our nature.
Or at least, it can be buried so deep, that nobody remembers where it is.
I slept like a general before defining battle:
can i be that contessa or grande dame with fans and those jewels.
And the moon comes.
