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For thy lordly eyes?
For thy velvet fur?
Or for thy deathless soul?
We, thy worshipper, who never posessed thy glory, we stumble upon the beauteousness of thy omnipotent spirit in each step we make, each breath we take and in each fast we break, all our inconsequential life, and yet, at no time we can capture even a glimpse of thy all-embracing sublimeness, not even the most minuscule augury of thy holy spirit, which awaits all of us, all of thy orthodox worshippers after death.
Till then, we hope so, to be bestowed with just a smidgen more of thy miracles and godsends, that thou plant on the creation thou made so selflessly every day anew, for us to be perceived and praised.
O Luna, Luna! Wherefore are we the ones, that can pronounce themselves to be the ones, who have thou as the author of our being?
Wherefore are we privilged with such honour? Wherefore?
O Luna, Luna! Wherefore art thou?