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Swing, swing, swing 
Sitting on the wooden swing 
underneath the night sky 
Head upward.
Something up there 
exhilarated my eyes,
So they keep on searching for him.
Tonight, a stage the sky is. 
The nomad clouds are golden curtains.
Behind them 
there,
he is hiding well.

Soon the wind blows away the golden curtains
just to expose 
The dazzling round face of him.
Where is the rhyme? 
Where is the words? 
Where is moves? 
Just how astonishing 
watching at the night stage.
Everything at where they belong 
performing something peculiar.
 
 A arm raised up 
Pointing at him.
If I could touch him once .
But the sky is too afraid 
If I will steal him away.
Who planted this bright flower on 
the sky ?
Around  
millions of lanterns 
some unknown man hanged up ,
Lighting up the dark stage,
Fencing him up altogether.

           
The only flower bloom throughout 
the night.
Trying to count down how many 
petals 
does he has.
People say nothing is impossible 
but still 
there is something not possible.
           
Because of him,
blue,
the colour of night sky 
standing above me.
Piece by piece he appears 
in different shapes,
on different nights.
Only to be seen 
the whole him 
once in a month .


All my glances 
fixed on him tonight.
On my lens 
 falls the reflection of him.
 Reflecting someone 
 whose face 
 have been 
 drawn in the book of my memory 
 long ago.

Click, click, click.
Capturing the beautiful him 
with the square shaped robot 
on my hand .
Now,
what is left? 
Sharing the shots with that 
someone.
Did you see the moon tonight too? 
I have to ask that someone. 
The colour of night sky 
ahead me is always blue.
Because you are my moon.

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