Did I tell you? Well, they are:
speckled black, on field of gray,
to draw men from afar.
It drives men mad, the moon, they say,
and I suppose it's true:
your eyes are like the moon, and men are driven mad by you.
Your hair is like the moon, you know.
Shining brightly, in my hands,
soft to touch, and pale as cream,
with fine and silken strands.
To touch the moon was once a dream,
but sometimes dreams come true.
Touch the moon. It reaches back. The moon will touch you, too.
Your heart is like the moon, you know.
Bleak, an airless desert, cold,
where nothing grows and nothing will,
a stony, barren soil.
A silence deep, a deeper chill,
a beauty cruel and black --
Men reach the moon. They go there once. Come home. And don't go back.