They said the moon was black and white, a silent stone in borrowed light— but science whispered, bold and true, it wears a robe of hidden hue. With strokes of texture, soft and bright, I chased its glow through day and night. Blues that bloom, and embered gold, secrets in its silence told. With paints that pulse when dark is near, the moon begins to reappear— not cold, not still, but full of fire, a quiet song, a deep desire. So let it glow, both fierce and far— our painted, glowing, spectral star. Not just a watcher in the skies, but a mirror to our dreaming eyes.