The boy shed his skin,
revealing luminous wings,
and his true nature.
He took to the skies,
fluttering wings lifting him,
toward the pale moon.
All night long they danced,
the fairy-boy and the moon,
cheered by the stars.
Until the dawn came,
ending the sweet night music,
making the moon flee.
The fairy-boy sighed,
heart-broke, sinking into flesh,
wings bound by man-skin.
In the sun's cruel light,
the night's magic boiled away,
until none was left.
A broken boy wakes,
impossible dreams fading
in the day's harsh light.
Crutches under arms,
he swings out of his sick bed,
his truth forgotten.
He endures the day,
longing for something unnamed,
his forgotten truth.
At last the sun sets.
Harsh day gives way to sweet night.
The bright moon rises.
The broken boy wakes.
He remembers his true self,
and spreads his bright wings.
He dances once more,
with the moon, with the bright stars,
with the soft night wind.
And maybe he prays,
that this night will never end,
that dawn will not come.
But the dawn will come.
He will be broken again,
and he will forget.
Time will not be kind.
The broken boy will become
just another man.
A broken beggar,
he will know want and despair,
cruelty and violence.
One day, he will die,
an old, broken beggar-man.
No one will mourn him.
But the moon will know.
The bright stars will remember.
They will call him home.
He will ride the wind,
on wings of silvery mist,
his mortal term done.
The moon will call him,
and the fairy-boy will come.
This night will not end.
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