The child- He soars above Earth,
Staining canvas with his light.
Which he picked from a lunar garden
From the land immersed in night.
His Mother calls him softly,
She wills his paint to dry;
As scarlet streaks and dark mystiques
Are sprinkled on the sky.
Her soft, warm arms are far outstretched,
Her honeyed curls alight.
The child soars on,
Away from her,
And rides COMETS all night.