They are many who write
Their songs to the lofty Moon,
Glorifying its light,
Its alluring and secret smile.
They are many who cry
For the velvety-black lagoon
Of the fathomless sky
In their search of the lunar guile.
But the Moon is indifferent, cold and completely deaf
To the summons of fervid and bleeding romantic hearts,
Doesn't care what Life is and what on the Earth means Death,
Doesn't need sacrificial and honoring works of arts.
All they try to invent
Is the groundless waste of time,
Like a grain of sea sand
In the middle of endless beach.
Better they hadn't spend
All their nights in the choice of rhyme.
Rather they'd understand
Icy hearts always stay unreached.
And the Moon is indifferent, cold and completely deaf
To the summons of fervid and bleeding romantic hearts,
Doesn't care what Life is and what on the Earth means Death,
Doesn't need sacrificial and honoring works of arts.