I was very much told of your fancy
in a dream on a night when the heavens
were filled with the trails that are formed by the
love you may have, bristled by benign gods.
it seems only a surfeit of pretense
that they say of many, frolic about
anything to hush the agitation
you would cast onto imagination.
what better recourse than to wish you well?
for it is your birthday. and the smile on
the moon speaks of the joyful things in life,
sans a restlessness nondescript of youth.
I shall not try to look with discerning
eyes on the plaintive figure that is you.