The Beauty of the Moon
She rises not to shine, but to reflect—
A borrowed light, perfectly imperfect.
Yet in her glow, the night feels kind,
She drifts in silver, soft and slow,
Bathing the world in a gentle glow.
No need to speak, no need to try,
She rules the tides, she moves the sky.
She waxes, wanes, and disappears,
Yet never truly leaves our sphere.
A silent watcher from afar,
A poet’s muse, a lover’s star.
Oh, the moon, in calm repose,
Wears her beauty like a rose—
Not loud, not proud, but deep and true,
A timeless light in midnight blue.
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