Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.

Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.

Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless nights.