You little bright star, triumphant with your sheen
On the lacklustered, unhappy night sky,
Aiding as the sole mirror for the weeping damsel,
Who sits on the Moon's belly, with her dark brunette hair,
Wondering if she could hear Pyramus' whispers.
You silver starfish, with your steel like foil,
Unravel the mysteries, Keats had once quoted,
Of the drowsy dreamy eyes, under subtle doses of Hemlock,
Oh you, bright star, how far do you reach?
How high shall my words scroll!
Do you reach the city of the grey canal,
Under which, my lover rows his boat, every afternoon, wailing for a company?
