The Moon Belongs to Me
by Caél Ó Maolain
Here I lay before my window In a moment in time that Slips into oblivion as has Each moment that preceeded it. Like causes of external forces Shelter me in concurring arms Of memorial embellishment where Justice has no scale and Freedom shows no face. A trilogy of events set up in Ironic haste beckoned me into This space of odorless scent and Slow-timed waltzes. Who has a name but one who is called and Who has face unless he is seen? Glory to the quagmire of reality. There is no sadness lest we put A cap on the power of God and the Universe. For pain is but gloating in self-pity, Abandonment in self-deprivation. For what reason should I pity myself? For, I watch the red moon rising in the East And she belongs to me!
caelomaolain@yahoo.co.uk
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