The Garden, me and moon!

A dark night. Moon overhead cast its sorrowful and wretched rays on the garden field. My garden field where all trees and the plants shared the same memories with me and my left-beloved. Where was she truly? I remember every single breath we took, laid on the grass and watching the rays of sun in the mid-day. These are my last breaths and I hear the sound of an unknown essence. I hear its long, heavy strides approaching. Will I have enough time to recall and reminisce everything from that time. The sounds are lamented. The music we played was essentially mournful and we deceived our self. The holy deception we created is now far away. Nothing has left but memories. Is she thinking the same as me right now? Where is my beloved? I want to show her how strong we were when we played the sad songs in the grass field and fumbled in farm and we could just hear the sound of sparrows, dancing grass and our steps and mirthful cheerfulness. Those were the days. I hear the steps approaching. Where can I found that great and famous door. Will the unknown essence take me to that door? Is it the same with everybody? Or I will have mine? I wish I see the grass land once again with her waiting for me. Was that love or dizziness? Anything it was, most welcomed! Was it truly a virtue that we lost? Am I virtuous now? The moon is high and is caressing me coldly. I have to lay back and wait for the door. I am here all alone. Last night I left everything inside my old cottage and I emptied myself of names of others and just kept the first love with me. I have moved in the endless dimension of time. I am immortal? or I will just transform into a nothingness? No matter what it is, let me go and make a visit. I see the moon again, I gaze at it. It is not blinding like the sun. I have always been afraid of looking at the sun. The massive warm hole in the sky. Sun is God because it's not approachable and genial. It's just generous and benevolent. Moon freezes everything sun gives us when we are sleep and this is the essence of oblivion and forgetfulness.
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies !
How silently, and with how wan a face !
What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness?
(Poem by : Sir Philip Sidney - 1554 - 1586)