A satyr's moon descends into my grove
In many guises, its luminescence always changing.
Full to bursting in its yellow costume,
Its autumnal presence whispers,
"A bountiful harvest will please me."

In its new moon tatters, its presence almost
Invisible in my garden,
It shows me the presence of evil
In the forest. It whispers,
"Your sheep are in peril."

As a half moon it shines on my flora,
the flowers and plants of my grove.
I pick bouquets and prune bushes.
Pleased, it whispers, urgently,
"Cultivate your garden!"

The gibbous moon wanes and tells me to rest.
I sleep and dream of a joyful sailor.
The gibbous moon waxes and tells me to fight.
I pick up my staff and it whispers,
"I gifted you the ram's horns to kill."

A crescent moon infuses my grove
With a phosphorescent glow and
Turns my eyes green, forever.
It tells me I am its child now,
Whispering, "Death is always near."

Its full moon raiment illumines the nymphs,
Cavorting nude at the edge of my grove,
In a grassy field, wet with dew.
Moonlight caresses their nubile bodies, whispering,
"Dance with them!"


Penned by my hand on the 10th of Sarapin, in the year 622 AF.