You are to me the full moon,
Sometimes shrouded in clouds
Only around once in a while.
But when you are here with me,
You are clear and bright
Illuminating the right path
With just a touch of lunacy.
What, then, am I to you?
You are to me the exotic,
The combination of the Orient
With its grace and rhythm
And Italy’s brilliant colors.
I can count the many trips
Your heart takes between them.
I watch but dare not follow.
What, then, am I to you?
Am I the innocent child
Who amuses you for a while?
Or maybe the wide-eyed student
You wish to fill with wisdom?
Calm and patience flow from you
While I am so coltish and wild.
There is little I can offer
There is less you can use.
You are to me a sorrow,
A dream I can never have.
Only a shadow of what jewels
Lie outside my weak grasp.
You are so tantalizing.
You keep so distant
As we stand under the full moon.
What, then, could I ever be to you?
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