A little stars began to mourn
Moon because her mother never came.
What could have happened? Who could stop?
Are there so many beautiful things to make it distracting?
If the black cloud coming. If the great gale blows.
And the fear of poor things, they squeeze the heart.
A soft wind passing stops to ask:
What are the stars that do nothing but mourn?
Our mother did not come. Our mother did not come.
You -¿la Be taken rain or the wrong way?
But in a cloudy chariot see it coming from afar.
At the meeting they run through the meadows of sapphire.
In the mysterious night they began to sing,
and their song fills the world, all of heaven and all the sea.
Ida Reboli
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