Next to the cob webs, were my candle-sticks, a blaze,
Outside my window, the moon burnt; aglaze;
I wondered if forever, shall disappear the moon?
And would we be wrapped in an eternal noon?
Wild monsters spread on the moon-blue flames,
Fuelled by pain of slaughter and love-it sees, it claims.
But its pain is not as it plays witness,
But is the penalty of the sin of loneliness;
I believe, the moon runs neither to hide itself nor to close its eyes,