There was me, the moon, and the night. On the flat roof of childhood home, I witnessed the night. I heard its silence. I smelled its gown; the black velvet robe. The leaves flickered to the cool breeze, and trees babbled in a cluster. Trees talk at night. I witnessed that.
The dark dissipated by the moon shine. The moon dapped the trees’ heads, with gold and white dots. At night, trees wear gold and pearl crowns. I witnessed that.
I leave my bed, and pierce my eye into the wall’s cracks, and see the cluster of roofs, and its sleepers on top. I think of the dreams the sleepers weave in their exhales. I think of the small ones, who cling to childhoods they are afraid to lose, in a night leap.
I look at the moon and make him vow: You moon vow! To never let the sun of adulthood rise. To never let the sun soar, like a silent nuclear bomb. I cling to the night’s robe, and reaffirm my grasps, whenever the velvet robe slips away.
Jean-François Millet: Sheepfold, Moonlight: commons.wikimedia.org