the secreted away, the moon of the moon
child of dew upon green fleecy grass,
do you jump and hop in gladness?
when tender yellow honey drips from the Moon hanging low 
the changing and shaping moonlight, even she is her victim also?
grown boys are born of halos,  of paraselene
partly irradiant like the cloud hid moon
searching forever the Other in vain,
the tale of parallel Soul 

(I feel the cool winds
blowing from the shades of a purple parasol)
the day of black moonlit night under the Sun
the shadowy valley lit by countless star-studded parhelion 

and when the moon is in the shape of shiny silver scythe

the secreted away children of the night, 
O moonchild, enlightened only by moonlight.
paraselene, son of the silver scythe
does the joyful universe exclaims itself in joy also?
when green turns red, red to yellow
yellow to brown, and still the black river flows.
paraselene est, ergo credo.
and the flower petals fell…
from whence you come, and from that whence too, wherefrom? 
I care less for where the river heads and faintly where it goes now.
but I crave for the truth that is said to exist in my parallel Soul.
parhelion, where moonlight finds his death.
when the night joins day in joy instead of shame or tears.
paraselene, faith for the phatasmagoriac dream of the moon
paraselene, from the true moon has never been broken,
but a scattered, tumbling and roaming
a happy piece of glittering moon-rock.
the world and men have spelled for him yet no definite doom