Crimson moon, rise.

Moon, moon, rise

Crimson moon, rise.

On the night when

The blue tiles were stained red,

The skies lost their light.

The fractured moonlight casts its light on tired faces,

And sorrowful hearts are stained blood-red.

The creek fills up drop by drop during

The long night, and we wait for the blues tiles to

Turn crimson as the moon rises.

When the crimson moon rises,

The clear blades of grass bask in joy.

When the sun rises, the yearning blades

Of grass immerse in sorrow.

Moon, moon, rise

Crimson moon, rise.


The End

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