I care a little less for waxing moon—
Greedy, gaining rounder girth all the while,
Who, seems to me nigh proud at midnight's noon,
And boastful to world of his plundered pile;
I like waning moon wearing off his boon.
Gaining, getting I feel one never grows,
My heart and soul go for the giver moon;
In giving off, the seeds of growth one sows.
On giving up all he gets to be new,
Gains from Sun, be a giver once again,
In no time all her silver to retain,
Yet, boastful once again of borrowed hue!
It's waning moon that sacrifices weft
To give and give till not whatso is left.
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Sonnets | 06.11.07 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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