The full moon hangs low,
On the inky black sky,
As the world sleeps.
Yet only one girl is awake,
Tossing and turning in her bed,
Wishing she were lying on a meadow,
A bed full of grass under her sprawled self,
Looking at the moon,
Underneath a star bright sky.
She would talk to the moon,
Calling the moon her mother.
She would tell her Mother Moon,
All about her life in the daylight,
When Apollo rides in his sun chariot.
The moon would listen to her rants,
She would listen to her daydreams,
Ever the quiet surrogate mother,
Listening to her daughter’s woes and whims.
The girl would sometimes wish,
That the moon would respond,
Yet she knew all too well,
That she was all alone.
Yet as the feelings of soltitude crept in,
Much like the early morning fog creeping in,
She would realise that at least,
The moon would hold her secrets,
And would never tell anyone,
Of all the boys she loves,
But can’t have.
The moon would never tell anyone,
Of the times she felt so lonely,
That she wanted nothing,
But for the Grim Reaper himself,
To whisk away her poor forlorn soul.
And she feels safe at last,
For her secrets are now in the past.
– Symphony Chakma