The evening sun, with day near done, descended towards the swells,
painting fiery beams upon the slender seaside arbors.
Three mice as one, did watch Red Sun prepare to say farewell.
Her final glow upon the boughs led evening to the harbors.
"Our hearts beat slow. Our minds do know, this truth eluding others."
"Transcendence lies awaiting us in silence, I am sure."
"One mundane plan of one plain man," said one mouse to his brothers,
"Will, as a louse, infest, infect and taint what once was pure."
"Blue Moon agrees, upon the trees, her cool rays are reflected!"
"What you present is violence, but this is not our way!"
"If silence seals what violence deals, and we three are protected,
Then with Red Sun a ’slumber now, let Blue Moon have her say."
For by the bay, we end this day, beneath the Blue Moon’s lens.
On sands unseen, our hands are clean, to greet the silent cleanse.
Blue Moon subsides, yet silence hides, before the morning sunlight.
Dawns soothing glow surrenders to the bright red rising sun.
The scarlet glare is much to bear for small eyes after one night.
Three squinting mice turn to the trees. The day has now begun.
Unto distress they acquiesce downtrodden by the clamor,
Lamenting in partaking of what renders silence razed.
With lists of chores, and fists through doors and skins and souls and amour.
The memory of silence becomes fantasy debased.
Yet whilst they fall, a thin still call meanders through the din,
Relating endless histories of lice and mice and men.
"This foolish lot," it chides, "is not, above the urge to sin."
"Yet silence does await, but know you’ll know not where or when."
The Blue Moon dwells beneath the swells. She waits to rise once more.
So once in a Blue Moon, three men can gather at the shore.
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