Pale and quiet in the silvery moonlight,
Like a specter only one can see -
Except we all see it, standing there.
In among the branches and the mist,
It plays love on invisible keys,
Like a forgotten pianist without a bench,
Or a tune that needs no hands to play it.
And we can do little but pursue it,
Always through the forests and the mist,
A phantom carrot on the end of a stick,
Always followed, never caught...
What good is pursuing an unreachable end,
Except that you can't help but do it?
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