Unaware of travails,
Unaware of station,
Unaware of sorrow,
Unaware of victory,
Unaware of defeat,
Unaware of us,
Seasons take leave.
Unbid new seasons arrive.

Sun gets closer
flaring summers in its wake.
There comes that season, as the Moon gets closer, 
When brighter nights come upon.

Soon after dark on a January evening,
When all seem to have less of a reason to walk out,
I opened my door on a Moon of few days.
A chill of rustling air mingled into my pours
in a volume of fog that descended for a graze in the night.

Proportionately, picturesquely,
Afloat, yet afirm, Above the tree tops,
Neither to the West,
Nor to the perfect South,
Ways in between, More to the West than to the South,
In the Southwestern sky,
The silvery moon shone rendering all else dark. 
Like a candle ensconced by a black veil
Untrammelled by all other light,
Its definition precise.
The vast sky retreated in shame,
Few stars dimmed in deference.

Rupturing my silence,
in the most quietest of manners,
The knowing Moon,
The smiling Moon, said:
"Freedom is having the capacity
Freedom is having the wits
Freedom is having the facility 
to recognize paradise when you walk into one".