ORIGINS of a STERN belief

The hunters moon looks like a penny in the sky, a hole in a black paper kite. Thread-strung suspended in the dark of night. Who said that when I think, I simply am. I dont think it matters who I choose to be. What matters is who told him to speak free. Then during day, milk-pale disc all alone. Indefatigible ritual destroyed, all my thoughts are lost in the starry void. Or are they found somewhere else? To say, that in a far-off cosm light years away: their worlds spin backwards to our yesterday.