Selene is travelling now.
Unbound. Silently traversing the silvered night.
In a grotto, somewhere in Asia Minor, lies her boy Endymion.
He is made of carbon, of alabaster.
Sleeping. Sleeping in her cloudless light.
She worries and weeps for him. Weeps and worries.
Her qualms as various as stars.
Just the usual fears she says;
mainly the terrors of waking and ageing. Ageing and waking.
Her boy is griefless in his slumber.
He is dreamless and sees no more
her trace across the heavens.
Listen, in her moon song is her catastrophe;
“Oh sweet Endymion beware,
for the body gives up its radiance
yet the heart fades not”.