The moonlight.
She whispers softly,
like a song, like a melody
you’ve heard a thousand times before.

Weep, little sister.
Cry sweet salty tears as the moon hangs in the sky,
her lacy skirt torn by the wind,
eyes blinded by the rising sun as she runs,
breaks away from the light to dwell
forever in darkness.

Do not be afraid for the moonlight.
She disappears into the black not to cry,
never to die.
She will rise triumphant:
a phoenix in the fire of the stars!
She will forever watch over you little sister,
your face echoes in her ashen curves
and hollow craters.

She sees what the reflection shows,
and the hollows in your grey eyes.
She hears your whispers in the dark, little sister….
…and she cries.

She cries for you,
for me.
For the way humanity tucks itself away
in the wisps of shadows long forgotten.

Do not be afraid, little sister.
Open your eyes and see the silver pools
of your soul in the mirror.

Be brave, little sister.

Be awakened in the fire of the stars.

Rise, every night, with the moon.


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