The Moon

The moon, a knowing other,
Moon, my caring long lost-lover-
Lean, and pining stoutly pulls
The night into her cool dark lair,
Brave, and with a benign sorrow
Weeps instead for our tomorrow.

White the streets, and white our faces,
Casts away all living traces
Of wilting fear or covert qualms,
Of any of our dead alarms, just
Mournfully hums up in black clouds
Away our unhappiness and doubts.

Let us enjoy this pious moon
That strips me of my heavy scruples, and
With its soft white wanting ripples
Tears me from my hesitation, and
Shines behind the precipitation
Of our once forbidden love.

Let us tentatively flee, as she
Feeds off our misery,
And let her cry, let her cry
So that our conscience need never try
To weigh it up or piece together,
Weigh love up and piece together.