Poem: The Copenhagen moon

This bright blue waxing crescent
Descends on my waning ardent.

This cold, cruel, Copenhagen Lune
Sings in my heart a callous tune.

This dark drizzle of a quarter moon
Is to my passionate quandary immune.

This ethereal, edifying silver orb
Indeed eclipses my soul to absorb.

This friable, frigid, foolhardy sky
Turns purple to my ever-fiery cry.

This old gracious, golden galactic
To my gallant rhymes remains pedantic.

How do hearts make the heartless hear?
In silence to listen to thy heavenly sphere.

universitypost@adm.ku.dk

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