The Song Of The Moth Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

Hear moonchild

the prima materia of Earth
reflecting her grace in mirror images
on the silver splinters of the night's frost;
beautifying the sick rain
as it punishes life and dreams,
and betrayed ghost archetypes,
the imperial curse of the brick people.

Hear child

the mourning of the Sun,
disguised in amber shadows
and yet dateless, like the water's flutes,
casting pure sounds of silk
on the drunken blossoms:
frustrated expectations
colliding in stillness.

Can you hear my loved one

my plea for help through my winter's nights?
my tales of confusion?
my testimonio animae:

“… and the moon delivered the soul to its genesis”