" The moon from any window is one part
whoever’s looking.

The part I can’t see
is everything my sister keeps to herself.

One part my dead brother’s sleepless brow,

the other part the time I waste, the time
I won’t have.

But which is the lion
killed for the sake of the honey inside him,

and which the wine, stranded
in a valley, unredeemed?

And don’t forget the curtains. Don’t forget the wind
in the trees, or my mother’s voice saying things
that will take my whole life to come true.

One part earnest child grown tall
in his mother’s doorway, and one a last look
over the shoulder before leaving.

And never forget it answers to no address,
but calls wave after wave
to a path or thirst. Never forget

the candle climbing down
without glancing back.

And what about the heart
counting alone, out loud, in that game
in which the many hide from the one?

Never forget the cry
completely hollowed of the dying one
who cried it.

Only in such pure outpouring
is there room for all this night. "

― Li-Young Lee , Book of My Nights