Oh, starve yourself, my friend,
for the very sounds of the wind
mock your enchantment
over the stars and sky.
They break your howl and
tear at your strength--
hollow and incomplete,
like an hourless night of tears--
just so the Moon can laugh.
It can and will rejoice at your
tireless sobbing and weeping,
only as cruelly as you allow,
for its somber pretenses
reap only what you give.
Let loose this chorus full of stars
into the very entrance where yon heart lies,
the only escape one can hope for
lives not where it is open,
but where it is dark--
where the Moon can extend its hand
in offering, in praise, in love and protection--
and the sounds of the wind
cannot muse their way into--
Sing and dance for him,
the life-giver,
for his own rhythm is yours.
Smile, for his own words
are uttered with your name
in between, weaved and sewn.
what could be called the night.
