Moon and the poet

The moon of the sky said to me at night, "Isn't man a strange being? He creates his own entanglements, And then, restless, stays awake, unable to sleep." "Do you know how ancient I am? I've seen Manu born and die, And countless dreamers like you, Sitting in the moonlight, weaving dreams." "A man's dream? It is but a water bubble, Rising today, and bursting tomorrow. Yet, still, man is blessed, isn't he? Playing with bubbles, creating poetry." I did not speak, but my melody did, "Look again at the moon! Do you know me? Are my dreams mere bubbles? Is this just water? Don’t you recognize fire when you see it?" "I am not the one who merely traces dreams; I melt them in fire, forging them into steel. And upon that, I lay the foundation of a new home, Raising walls of iron strong and real." "This is not Manu, but his son before you, Whose imagination cuts like a sharpened blade. Not just thoughts, but arrows are his words, Even dreams now hold a sword in hand." "Go and inform the emperor of heaven— They are ascending the sky every day. Stop these dreamers, if you can, For they are marching toward heaven's gate."