When will you say the moon is beautiful? When its rays are illuminated in a brightly lit urban city – of colliding illuminations from the man-made lights and of God given moon beam? Or will you say that it’s beautiful when it is accompanied by the strum of crickety tunes in a soft wind-blown meadow, misty expanse of landscape that invites all energies of romanticism, and the sight of a pair of lover walking hand in hand by the bank of a moon-illuminated river as silky and cottony?

The moon mystifies us; fashions our imaginations with unworldly thoughts, of magic and love, of illusion and fantasies, and of the realities of a being. The splendid beauty of the moon as she hides beyond the thick tufts of the night clouds, or as the gaping branches of an old sycamore devouring her rays. There must be a reason why the Greeks pay patronage to this illuminative creation; may it be Hecate of the darkness, Luna of the Latin kin, or the huntress Selena or Celestia of the skies. The sea succumbs and the tides reach for her. Men were drawn mad by her serene calmness, animals worship her, drained and seduced.

I have long loved the mystery behind her beauty. The whiteness, the light. May the moon continue to shine the paths of the travelers who lost their ways, illuminate the heart of the darkest, the cores of those who hid from her, and stretch out the magnificence of her beauty.


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