In the burnt down wood on boiling swamps' bogs,
In a tomb, near a captivating moonlight,
In a dungeon, with the damp dimly foliage, in stones,
There is a manuscript mentoring us with questions:

How much shine has been torn from the sky?
How many ships have got tangled in the nets?
How many depressed eye sockets
Turned to the pale disk of Moon?
How many questions did they ask her?
At all times.
How long has she been indulgent towards us?
At all times.
At all times, worshipping the stars
 [bad word] in closure and salvation.
They look deeply in there, at the inspired Moon
And the same inmost dreams [bad word] back
But nobody thinks that she can suffer too…