Moon doesn't have a mouth

 The moon is specifically bright tonight. My eyes were half-opened and I could feel its light filtering through the crack of the curtains, through the frosty shadows, onto my eyelids and lashes and my skin. I had to wake up. I haven't seen anything so bright and melancholic in months. She's there watching over the world. Over us. Do you think so, too? I know you don't. It's been a long time since we last talked. I don't miss you anymore, but I asked her if you have missed me too. What does she know? Perhaps nothing since she's just a glowing astronomical body who's incapable of hearing and has never been frightened before. But perhaps everything because hundreds of generations of the human kind have whispered wishes and prayed and sung and danced to her. Because she is so capable of being loved, because her guardian is wordless and resilient. The light from the neighbor's living room went out. No cars has passed this route for the past hours. Me. Just me and her and maybe you, too. She casts her shadow in shape of lifeless branches, onto the pristine white snow that mirrors her own purity. She is pure, but she is not innocent. Not an hour on earth, since the beginning of her, has passed without a sliver of that fragile light. She has witness everything. Has heard every song, seen every living things, touch them with her mirage. She is so bright that you can not bat your eyes away from her, yet taciturn in a taste that dissipates on your nerves. 


The moon is a celestial guardian. A light for those who are lost, a song for those who have found home. A prayer for those who mourn and an embodiment of those who left. In her trusts mankind, for we know she is everything we are not—The soil we're incapable of digging up, the hummings we can't play, the ignorance we can't practice. Had she a mouth, she would have blown onto the waves to calm them down, would have sung lullabies to put her children to sleep, have changed hymns while she rests in God's arms. 

But she does not have a mouth. So she glows with the world. She blushes on the sky of a concert so loud it could reach the mountaintops, shift herself into a hammock to rock crickets to sleep, and lastly, she glows. 

Glows the brightest when the world is burning up. When earth shakes with claymore and rumble with rockets. She is a mirror of her children, even if her children refuses to reflect the tenderness in her gaze.

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