The moon rises gently, on invisible wings,
spreading golden beauty across the sky.
I’m struck by my insignificance in life
knowing that, unlike the moon, I can die.
With the ceaseless repetition of the universe
the day ends and the moon rises yet again.
Whilst I, made of fragile flesh and blood,
will one day cease to be - not merely wane.
Oh wish that I could be eternal like the moon
and shed a warm and loving glow on one and all.
Oh wish that I could help this broken world
and save it from its last and final fall.
Some nights the moon rises, warm as fresh blood,
symbolic of the fearful hearts of all mothers
whose children are destined, from the moment of birth
to die in some war — slain by their brothers.
When man finally succeeds in his self-destruction;
when he eliminates all life from shore to shore;
when he destroys the world in a nuclear inferno
then the bleeding moon will rise no more.
We need not fear for our childrens’ children-
for them there will be no pain nor death nor war-
for man is so intent on achieving oblivion
that soon the bleeding moon will rise no more.
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