A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Who cast the moon so far
That she remains
Betwixt and between?
Ring-a-ring o' roses,
Marble streaked,
Vast, silent, and captive,
Deathly pale
In cold reflection of the sun.
Mute and serene,
Yet her potent stillness
The mask may change,
Through crescent, half,
Gibbous and full,
And the great illusion
She performs,
To vanish wholely
From the air,
Although unseen,
The moon is there.
Post a Comment