The moon is tangled in the trees abandoned there by autumn breeze; she cries aloud but no one knows the noise above the sound of crows all rising now to take their flight against the winter’s lonely night. I stand and gaze upon her face and understand the words she says: her terror of the coming frost, her sorrow at the dreams she lost, her fear of beauty fading fast, her knowledge that no joy can last, her vision dimming with the dawn, her freedom being all but gone. Her halo spreads like arms aloft beseeching to once more be tossed upon the sea of atmosphere away from grounded woe and tears. But wedged in branch and caught in leaf the wind is but a bitter thief To leave the precious, lovely thing a bauble on a broken string.
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