Luna

 She ran slightly on the dry leaves in a calm and solemn park. It titillated its lights in the reflex of the lukewarm water of a lake. She felt the wind. Croakings and buzzings patrolling as night guard. She wanted the moon. Her sublime translucency touched the snow white skin of hers and, lying on the fresh gram of dew, she hummed epic songs of old stations and hearts. That, yes, was a delight, an action of simple love. The moon that licked the woman’s curves like an immense candle at night insisted on swallowing clarities in rafts. Short waves, long waves. A sound that won the syncopated rhythm of the voice that sounded a brilliant simplicity on the air. It was the boy. The villager. The marginal boy, noble in his heart intentions. He became jealous with the scene and fought a battle in the intimate of his disordered and recently disrupted mind. He smiled and lied down beside her.  Now the moon licked the two of them. It was a “ménage a trois.”