I am sorry I was ever born. The secret enchanted woodlands of my childhood, sad yet enticing, is called by another name now. Love. The pain dries my throat and leaves me incoherent as I realize that love is nothing but a dream I cannot see, a land just out of my reach, a person I will never know.
Then I gaze at the moon and the moon sings a soft dirge.
Beethoven heard it so many years ago.
Why am I no longer five? Why did I have to grow up so much? The solitude then was of a different kind, an awareness that some benevolence exists, a mother will sing me to sleep, a father will hold my hand as my feet softly trace the contours of dewy grass. Such days leave us by- and we are only left with the memory, the mere silhouette, the shadow
of a bitter moon.