The night

The tombstone cracks, 'tis but a stone,
I lay awake and watch it,
When the moon comes down to rob the night,
I smile at it and watch it.

Yesterday I'd cried,
Perhaps tomorrow I'll bleed,
Today is already yesteday,
Maybe tonight, I'll sleep.

And when the Sun rises to punish the moon,
I'll hide from that whiteness,
I wait for the night, I wait for its darkness,
I wait for its white thief.

Maybe tomorrow, when I'm tired of light,
I'll go out and embrace the dark,
but for now, I'll ignore the sun,
the moon shines gentler and whiter.

I touched that tombstone today,
I laughed when that cold stone crumbled,
My hand is living, I scolded myself,
It would burn through the deadened marble.

I caught a moth in the crescent night,
I seized it by its wings,
It screamed at me silently,
I smiled at its captivity.

It fluttered furiously, that speck of life,
as I observed in fascination.
Tomorrow, then, for those without it,
Is borne on fluttering wings.