The moon lay still
against his starlit quilt,
and on his face,
a forlorn look appeared.
The ground below lay silent,
no inch untouched
by his desolate light.
As he mournfully watched,
each blade of grass
shed a tear for the sleeping sun.
His cold grey face grew solemn,
as a innocent jealousy arose.
For each piercing drop of dew
in the corners of their eyes
bled dry his dignity.
“Oh! What grievance
do I merit,” said he,
“That the sun hold a
more noble rank in the heavens?”
“For we were made
but with one intention--
to illuminate each moment.
He to ignite the day,
and I to enliven the night.”
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