The moon, with a lightness even footprints can not tarnish, is once again full of power.

It is racing against the clouds, tearing through them and leaving gaping holes.

It is causing plants to tremble and animals to howl.

It turns some men into gibbering idiots, and others into spokesmen for the universe.

It crosses the sky with grand indifference, dazzling lovers and fools with the same intensity, and perhaps the same results.

In turn, by century and continent, it has been revered and feared, called goddess and bitch.

The moon makes each dancer a wave of liquid motion, and traces each poet’s line with gold.

You and I, Einstein and Shakespeare, Buddha and Jesus, have all looked up and left the reflection of our eyes on its brilliant surface.

Moonbeams dancing on the sea – remember me, remember me.