Folktale Love

They call her a woman,

that luminous nighttime lamp.

Was it, perhaps, her coy face

peeking behind gossamer curtain clouds?

Or could it be

her gentle luminosity, her changeable personality?

I see her each evening,

My love, my life, so beautifully full and bright.

My lover the moon,

and I am her wolf at night.

I come calling,

hoping for a sliver, a shy peek of silver.

Glinting off the lake,

rippling over my fur as she runs her pale hands down.

I cry with longing,

and yet she still flirts from her distant perch.

Forever beautiful,

forever lost; and so I sing a song, a love ballad.

Of my love and loss to her distant, cold heart.

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