source: pexels
The moon murmured quietly. Muttering to himself. About when the morning comes. When do the venus come.
The moon has been so tired. Hung alone in the vast sky. Unaccompanied by the stars. Without the clutch of clouds.
What he can do to kill his solitude. To dispel his loneliness. While the night still dwells with the dark. Dark resembling a black blanket. Like a dark veil full of mystery. And the moon often fears itself.
Will the morning come early tonight? He asked silently for the umpteenth time. Who would answer? No.
Unless the wind slams into a storm, rowdy, as if laughing at his unspeakable loneliness. But the ghosts, who flew here and there chatted with the flocks of bats. And the owls cursed from the branches of the banyan tree, and the fireflies unwillingly flashing the light, and the thieves who lost their way to escape, still did not make the moon laugh or just smile for once.