She was the daughter of the moon
Pale, beautiful always out of reach
But who could read her
Not me, no-one perhaps
Neither was she of my small world
I long to hear her voice as she sang
Who breathed the cool night
For if I have been so touched
Has she bestowed a special gift?
And kissed my eager lips
Hers for eager eternity
Her father could be time himself
Shapeshifter moving constantly on
Could I live with this legend
Or be her poem's sad end?
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