Night Light Poem by Irina Doichinova

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.