A prayer plays on my lips every time I look up at the Moon: br That at that moment, I share with my dear Miranda br The grand and beautiful sight. br I often stare entire evenings, br Hoping that she at the same time will catch Its glow in the sky, br And in that glow a glimpse of my eyes. br br I’ve never, ever known of anything as lonely as the poor Moon. br It has nothing to call Its own but dust and craters, br Surrounded on every infinite side of It br By years past, and years to come, br And a space as black br As the tears of an old man who has lost his memory. br And every time he spots the Moon gazing down upon him, br Those black tears of his streak his craggled cheeks. br He remembers (blesséd memory!) br That he has forgotten something. br And his attempts to regain those once-held and dearly-loved br (Now forgotten and dearly-missed) br Moments of his life are as pitiable as br The all-alone Moon br With the eyes of two soul mates staring at each other br By reflection in Its dusty, cratery surface. br br The old man, in his chair at the window— br Passed away, both hands over his heart, br Though a heart attack is not to blame. br But just before his soul pulled away from him, br And likely because of its readiness, br He remembered of a Love. br br The Moon mourns the death; br The eyes of the old man br And the eyes of Another br Were the only two pairs which ever used It br To speak to, and see, each other; br Which ever allowed It to see two lovers’ Love, br And to feel love Itself. br And too innocent for spite, br Too loving for spite, br The Moon zealously glows, br Faithful ‘til our end. br Though It still remains the loneliest thing I’ve ever known.