At dusk the moon leaves his rest.
And the sun sleeps at last.
Lowered behind the clouds,
He breathes his last,
Dying in a fire of orange and red
Writhing in an abyss of pain
Letting his soul leave,
So that the moon can rise again
And shade the world in silver splendor.
For the sun so loved the moon
That he died every night
To see him smile once more.