Buried moon, buried moon
Who to talk about at noon
When dreams are plundered by light
And powdered in gold and charcoal dust.
Crescent fairies are sad in the rouse
and at falter to surmise
the scanty slumbering traces
that led stupors into trenches.
The owners of the light
Do not know its might
and the pleasure of the sun
to astound and burn above…
Buried moon, buried moon
I want you soon…
As to play my feral dreams
around the all surviving tunes!
(Reposting an old poem)
Art – Buried moon by Edmund Dulac.
via Buried moon
misterkaki 