When the Moon Called Out My Name

The night unfolded, calm and deep,

where rivers dream and shadows sleep.

The wind hummed low, a tender tune,

and all the while, I watched the moon.

It climbed the sky with patient grace,

a silver mask, a timeless face.

Its light fell soft on leaves and streams,

like someone gently mending dreams.

I spoke my name into the air,

not knowing if the night would care.

No echo came, no sound returned,

just quiet paths the starlight burned.

Then, slow and clear, a whisper came,

the moon had softly shaped my name.

It held the sound as if it knew

the hopes I’d hid, the truths I grew.

It told me, “Child, you’re not alone,

your light is stitched into my own.

The world will turn, the dark will fade,

but what you are cannot be swayed.”

And as the river sang its rhyme,

I felt my soul step out of time.

The moon and I, in gentle frame,

would never see the night the same.

Beneath the stars, we both became

two notes within a single flame,

two hearts that knew the night’s true claim,

forever bound by whispered name.

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