One may see it as the moon, a believer,
Wanting what one can only reflect.
And so, forged is a cold fever.
Against all light works the griever,
Reaching wrechedly to collect.
One may see it as the moon, a believer.
In chance that ones feels to be an achiever,
This some angel mind should deflect.
And so, forged is a cold fever.
And not is one the sole receiver.
There's just as many who readily expect-
One may see it as the moon, a believer.
Yet stray far from nonbeliever.
All is not dark and lightlessly wrecked.
And so, forged is a cold fever.
One may not burn by pull of easy lever.
And this is not for one's neglect.
One may see it as the moon, a believer.
And so, forged is a cold fever.
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