The moon is pale, it is cold.
Its glow is weak and feeble,
Yet its grip is strong.
Sometimes I stand and stare,
Its face is pale, it is cold.
I walk towards its breathless air,
Like possessed I walk.
And I seem to be getting there
Where desires turn to frozen hopes.
The stars are bright, they're fair.
Towards them, I sometimes dare
To lift my eyes and frozen hopes.
Then suddenly they flare
With steady, burning throbs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem