sing me your song, Moon.
your sad song, reserved for defeated
soldiers like me, defender of every
sorrow, every lost cause.
 
there will be no Chanson d’Amour on these
starless nights. I’m done hearing of love, in
French or any language. cry your tears like
wine, make me drunk and forgetful.
 
goddess and singular liege of the skies, are
you too imperial, too pure to be loved? do I
come to you to learn how to prevail with that
same emptiness? am I that pitiful?
 
shine there, vain and omnipotent,
as if you know all my secrets…
how can you be so proud? you have not
even a robe to cover your nakedness.