The waning moon had risen
And such silver beams had he given
The sweet-bitterness of chrysanthemum
And the delicate smell of lemon blossom
Had battered and left, mellow
Shadows on my pillow

Mist, as light as gauze
Snaked her way in the woods
Her whitish grey cloak
Sparkled against the dark leaves of oak
The dim redness of hawthorn
Shone mysteriously like tiny phantom

The tender hands of simple Repeatness
Striked and wounded, boundless
Lines on the slim bough
Of the slender Elder, deep enough
To see her gentle core
But her twig hast not been tore
Nor her pure flowers
Smiling neath the stars

The brook, bubbled dreamily
Upon the perfect round pebbles, softly
An owl hooted
Somewhere so distant
The world was soaked
In the twisty darkness, he twanged
The golden string of the lyre
Music sweetened the frozen air

Night, thee beauteous forest
Sweet dreams, thee who forgot them not
As the silky butterflies flew
Kept their little hearts true
A new love grew in her cocoon
Neath the silver waning moon

Feb., 2010