Sailing on a highway in the indigo velvet night
She sighed, drowsy, gazing out the window
At the static crescent, blue white arch,
Pure, cool and serene above the night hushed fields
Flowing past, in view.
"What is it, you think,
That makes a crescent moon?
Is the shadow earth, are we the darkness
That moves across the lunar face?"
This is what we think, born to think,
We are responsible for the phases,
The slow threnody march
On the pale horizon,
The arc thinning
To a glimmer
A silver glance
The road sang soft in solitude,
Bending wide around an ebony grove
Of pinewood, whispering in waves
On the midnight wind.
"No," he said, "It isn't us.
The crescent is what faces the sun,
The thinner, the slighter
The further the lunar gaze
"I guess," she said,
"It is like dying, the crescent moon:
Lesser and lesser from our point of view,
But at its face,
At the crescent place,
The sun is always full."