The Moon

Tonight you were slim at sunset, reminding me of the Persian poem:
I saw the sky's green land and a sickle of the new moon, reminding me of my own crops and the harvest time.

I had planted something. I had nurtured it. From the night you were blocked by the sun. The harvest time arrived; I did not have a good season.

Our names will orbit the moon, but we cannot get to meet on earth again. As far as it is, and as unreachable as it appears, moon is more accepting of us. How strange is that?