In the darkness,
I thought there was no light.
But I look up
and I see the moon.
And there is magic . . .
in the light of the moon.
September 27, the first night.
White,
very round—
perfect circle.
When drawn,
you still need to measure
or use a compass.
But the fullness of the moon
is no longer in question.
Because there is no question
in the fullness of the moon.
It is very bright—
too bright,
you will fail not to notice.
It is as if your knight in shining armor had come
when seeing the sight of the moon.
The light of the few clouds around it becomes a
dirty white,
tan,
cream
because of the bright light coming from there,
surrounded by a dark asphalt shade of clouds.
And slowly,
the black clouds with an ash gray tint—
was covering the moon.
At first,
it was just a little.
The following sight—
no more.
The full moon was completely covered . . .
of a while ago's dark clouds surrounding it . . .
but there is still a mark left.
And in the end,
no mark will be left.
Because the clouds have completely lived
to the dark night.
As if the moon did not exist . . .
as if it never existed.
Because the moon is like that,
like a bubble,
suddenly visible.
Like time,
when there is a beginning
and an end.
Will show up
and leave at the same time.
But will come back,
we do not know when;
maybe tomorrow
on the next night—
but never during the day.
September 28, the second night.
Tonight,
the moon is not as clear as yesterday.
Too blurry—
vague.
There are no clouds around,
only a round moon in the lonely black sky.
As I walked,
it was covered by the leaves of the tree.
When it was freed from the leaves of the tree,
there were already dark clouds above the circle.
September 29, the third night.
I did not see the moon,
because I did not go out tonight.
But if I go out,
will it be there?
Or nothing?
Is it clear?
Or vague?
How does the moon feel when it is above,
as if it watches over the whole world?
And every time I walk,
the light seems to follow.
To say,
I will be fine.
September 30, the last night.
Still hazy,
covered by some dark clouds.
When it was no longer covered,
it was round,
but still blurry.
Even the light,
dim.
When will it be clear again?
Will it ever be clear?
I hope it will be clear,
at the same time I do not hope,
because perhaps it had grown tired
and I could not blame the moon.
The moon always tries its best to light the night—
to light the dark infinite sky.
It must be tired,
living in the darkness
being the only light.
It must be tired,
lighting someone from above
and cannot go down.
It must be tired,
being too bright—
you cannot stop.
Is the moon tired of being bright?
Or is it tired of giving light?
That it cannot help but wish,
"Sometimes,
I am not bright at all."
Sometimes,
I wonder,
is the moon already tired
of giving light?
And sometimes,
do not the moon wonder?
To hope for once,
to be given light.
The moon must be tired,
living in the darkness
being the only light.
It must be tired,
lighting someone from above
and cannot go down.
It must be tired,
being too bright—
you cannot stop.
The moon must be tired of being bright,
it must be tired of giving light.
But I hope the moon
does not forget about the stars.
At the same time,
sometimes—
I do not hope.
