blue valentine

down the willow garden

Down the willow garden,
right below the hills–
the sun's a fair maiden,
the moon's musing for me:
"Did you ever write something,
something for a poor lad like me?"

I know no good answers,
all I got is a doubt within me.
"A part of me, ablazed stars of Georgia,
the other half, sleep tight California;
the writer you're asking,
has no poem for an offering"

The moon cried
and his tears turned into snow,
and the ships swallowed by tides,
and all left was the poet– begging and cried:
"I write you a poem but,
with a condition from mine."

"I'll write you one
if you have touched the sun,
in the midst of her sun beam's streak;
I'll write the most lovely of poems,
poems you've never heard before"

And the moon chases the sun,
time after time.
But the sun's a fair maiden,
and its not into his fun–
so they keep looking and fuming,
for centuries stretched into our times.

"And now!" The moon said
as she is holding the sun.
"This is the the moment!
The great poet! Kindly give me one!"
But it was a brief moment
and he only started a scratch.
"Guess, we'll wait for another!
I promise, I'll write another one!"

And down the willow garden,
right beyond the hills–
the moon keeps on chasing,
as the poet watches them from above.