Neither do the white bodies of the universe
say good morning to her
nor do the handmade stars
give her a kiss.
Earth,where so many roses, fine sentiments are buried,
could die for want of a glance, a scent,
This dusty ball is lonely,
so very lonely,as she sees the moon's patched clothing
and knows that the sun's a big thief
who burns with the many beams he has taken
for himself and who looks at the moon and the earth
like lodgers.