The moon is a smudge of paint in the painting of the sky. Perhaps some careless deity was painting upon the blank canvas of the universe, his paintbrush dripping with magic, his artistic powers splashing in tiny, silver dots across the skies. A droplet of white, pure against the charcoal night, sealed in place with a tear from the goddess of the heavens. The moon is a symbol of dreams, a beacon of light to lost souls, keeper of the stars. A lost pearl, opalescent and perfect, its face shining, lying on the richly woven carpet of the stars.

The moon is quiet, a peaceful reminder of faith and hope; a token of luck to wishful dreamers. It lingers in the air, a pinch of stardust, suspended in the sky. The gentle commander of the night.