The little boy of six or seven held
His father's hand, half past eleven,
Beneath the moonlit eucalyptus trees,
A man and son, small boy of six or seven.
Why do the stars and moon, began the boy,
Hang up there for so long without them resting,
And it must be cold--the night was getting colder--
I'll tell you son, said a man, when you are older.
The boy of six or seven, shot right past nine, eleven,
Would see his father every year
Just once or twice, but every time,
When he would leave, the boy would fall to crying.
Why do the stars and moon, whispered the boy,
Appear at different times, in different places,
Forcing those with such lengthy spaces in between
To suffer, unable to see such sights, together.
I'll tell you son, thought a man, when you are older.
He held his dying father in his arms,
Crying in his father's empty home,
As he always did when he knew that they were parting.
Why do the stars and moon?, guessed a man,
Watching his son cry for the first time,
Jubilate in the dark--such graceful tiny dancers--
I thought you knew, when you were young;
I never had an answer.
