That bright moon is the place where my dreams are;
Flowers and love and joy born of true desire;
A smile on each dream, travelling afar
To caress my heart’s squalid, human mire.

But those dreams! They always crumble to dust,
One calling the other a liar,
In time and fate’s consuming pyre,
Love killed by flowers and joy by futile lust.
And look!
Look!
O look, my moon is on fire!