I see myself as the moon.
My existence exists and persists so perpetually.
My father is a man named Night, whose love knows no bounds.
His eyes are like rivers—relentlessly bright.
My mother is a Winter breeze.
Her voice is gentle like a flower slowly sprouting from the Earth.
She is grandeur like bitter bark.
The bluest depths have known me and washed over my body like burning sadness.
A mere glance of isolation relents my actuality.