Fly

Clear as day,
this night seems.
The end of this time,
the winter means.

On these evenings,
the breezy moors,
will sing again,
for the crazy moon.

Tress and lanterns,
and the endless stares,
a bridge over the river,
a world without care.

I promise,
if you'll wait,
your fingertips,
will dance on mine again.