Tonight is the new moon, invisible to us yet somewhere hidden it exists, a lone and cratered silver disc. How sad our beloved moon must be at the state of our world, of man’s inhumanity to the mirror of himself. It suspends in darkness this night to mourn the children of the earth and will return to us, sliver by sliver.
Below is a fragment to the moon by the poet Shelley. I have a concert tonight in Berlin. In such complex times the songs will speak for me.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,--
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
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