The Moon


The timeless moon is colourless,
its soil is pale and gray;
Like unlit pavements in the night,
where life and light don’t stray.
Bulges, bumps and craters mar,
its surface all around.
And patches dark despoil its face,
to its gazer’s grief profound.
The moon shines not of its own light,
its soil does never burn.
Its glow it takes from the golden sun,
sending all to the Earth in turn.
But quite unlike the blazing sun,
which proudly flaunts its boon.
The moon shines softly coolly on,
be it December or June.
It tempers, soothes, the sun’s blind rage,
but never boasts its brawn.
It uses that to mollify,
the sun’s fierce fiery frown.
The sun is but a faithless friend,
too fickle to win our trust.
Sometimes its beams are mighty hot,
and often they are too cussed.
The faithful moon shines evenly,
all through its nightly course.
Till hidden by the floating cloud,
or the morning sun’s brute force.
The soft and silent moon lets out,
the energy that raves,
And spins and rolls upon the shore,
the enormous ocean waves.
Would that, the human race possessed,
the moon’s amazing ways.
Its calm, its beam of soothing love,
its strength to bear the blaze.
Its strength to lift the ocean tides,
to reach the towering heights.
Its feat to light the sailor’s way,
on dark, forsaken nights.