The moon-eyed man speaks in mumbling tongues
Handling soft carapace-beads in his time-worn hands
The sliver in his eye makes his face turn down
Encrusted in his brow lies a thousand sands
Sliding through the world, like sepulchral silk
At a moment’s pace, death flits behind
Sending sympathetic glances to the corners of the Earth
He sees the world; his face is blind.
The moon-eyed man feels for all in plight,
Though help may come with dissonance
His tools are apt, his steps are light,
He blankets you in ignorance.
