the Retrospecting-Poem on the Moon

Ouroboros. The stars won't wait for it.

“Bugs in the gutter”.That was probably a pretty accurate description of who I was right then. There was called Moon Creek, but there was not a drop of water in sight, it was just a long winding valley bottom. Fortunately, the road here was relatively smooth, so I could still courage myself to breathe away the magic light, and look up at the bright stars.

Long times ago? I thought maybe there was a star river in the sea. Yes, the star river in the lunar mare, as ridiculous as this waterless stream. If so, there must have been countless fish swimming in the sun and starlight water, touched by gently swaying seaweed wraps, along with the flowing threads of light into the distance of time. And this star? It was the gathering and dispersing stars that shuttled through the bottom of the sea as if the artery of the sea bed flowed, and from time to time took away a few playful fish. The river, moreover, had an end, and in that last inch of liquid, the stars flew straight up into an overhanging waterfall, more sparkling than the ice fountains of Enceladus, and more vivid than the leaping spring water of Canterlot. Eventually, one star after another was embedded in the night sky, sinking into it bit by bit, or bright could fly into the pupil, or dim into the Milky Way background color, like the immemorial pearl tears, and the USS Arizona that was always calm at the bottom of the sea.

Well, was it ridiculous?

Pretty ridiculous. I thought so much, but it was just imagining countless non-existent things. How could there be water here? How could there be poets? No one knew. In this way, ponies were a kind of creature that loved fantasy. They always devoted a lot of time to beautiful dreams and then created so-called artistic things. If we looked at it from the cold reality, I thought this Moon Creek was just the product of a collapsed ancient lava tube or a small trace of crustal expansion. But - did art have no meaning? I didn't think it must be. Mathematics and physics, the foundation of the operation of this small world, that which made the purple pony obsessed with it, perhaps represented the will of reality, but it couldn't be said to be all - why was the illusion impractical again? All this art and imagination were of course a kind of power, an intangible power, a power that didn't work, but it would touch the power of each of us ponies, then it was of course meaningful and could make ponies strive! Even if all these thoughts and fantasies were just the flickering of electrical signals, at least we had come and thought about it, that was all. At least the end was the same in the end.

Haha, it was also wishful thinking, how could we define reality and illusion...

Regarding the ending, I pondered over it many times, but that was the ending of an individual - what about the ending of all things? Some philosophers said that in this expanding box-called universe- was just like the room of a lazy pony who didn't like to clean, without a window, and everything would gradually become chaotic. Slowly, unorganized clothes and garbage bags would fly everywhere, and everything around would become increasingly cold and sticky. In the end, no pony would be in the mood to touch this zero Kelvin room anymore, and everything would be frozen in eternal time and no longer change. Fortunately, there was a small sink in this room, and the ripples in the sink gently rose and fell. As long as there was enough time, a small bubble, a hot bubble in operation, could fly out of it - oh, and no pony knew if we originally lived in a bubble. Another pony said: No, no, this room should be in the shape of Ouroboros. Every time it became messy, it would shrink into a wrinkled ball and then slowly return to a clean state - haha, it sounded like something that the poor wretch pushing the stone on the hillside would say.

However, why think about such distant and bad things? I still had things to do now, although it was not much more real than imagining the future. Let's move forward in the light cone! In this way, it was as if looking at the stars, what we cared about was the galaxy and the points of light, not the darkness filling the gaps between the stars, even though this was the majority of the night sky.

I remembered a writer once said: "We all have two time machines, the one that takes us back to the past is memory, and the one that takes us to the future is dream."

Even if there’s an end, after all.

But, how long was I alone? I could vaguely hear the call of the darkness, perhaps I belonged to all this, to this long loneliness. If I was suddenly thrown into a crowd, maybe I would drown. Being alone and leisurely like this was not a bad thing, it reminded me of the old days when I lay alone on the beach in the evening, and the setting sun gradually floated a path of light on the sea, dyeing the sky from the horizon to the other side of the blue into a crimson color. At that time, a pony told me that he dreamed of venturing into a career, working, and devoting his hard work. And then? I asked him. He just told me that this would earn a lot of pony money and gradually increase his status. And then? I asked again, but he replied: Then you could lie on the beach and watch the sunset in your old age - how absurd. Although it was not that sweating was something that should not be done, it was a part of what ponies were supposed to do. It was just that there was always a small group of ponies sitting on the towers of Canterlot who were keen on taking a large part of the sweat and blood of the workers for their enjoyment, making all this effort and hard work ridiculous. Then it was better to be so lonely on the moon, indifferent to everything, like a dead pony and naturally had no intention of changing anything. With the poems that filled everywhere reappearing on the gray-white ground in front of me, I vaguely felt that something was about to happen, right in front. Thinking about it, I had experienced thousands of things along the way, even if they were similar - from the poles to the Moon Creek, and further... mountains... headache. Mountains, what mountains, craters? I didn't remember if I ever prayed for death - asking it to take me away. But here I was, I had always been - which meant I had to keep going. Well, let's not think about it, let me read the poem first.

Thousands of years of circulation, the sun and moon at the same time glow.

The stream rises and falls through the cone of light.

Slowly and quietly, flying over the edge of the light and gravity well to the edge of the visible place.

There are breeze without noise.

There are clouds without teardrops.

This is a journey without end.

Fall into chaos, leap into the other side of the nebulae and moonlit night, until the thousands of stars fall silent.

There are poems without ink spots.

There are paintings without color.

There is no end to time.

And so it went...

"In eternity, a second has passed."

Alas, inexplicably. Did all poets like this?

The end of this journey was very close, and I could vaguely feel the poet's breath, even if this was impossible. Could his ears capture my voice in this mediumless space, one of the tiny frequencies among the thousands? Could my eyes cross the horizon forged by this small curvature to catch a glimpse of the lunar surface outside the distant time difference?

Maybe inspiration had come, and let me also compose a poem for the end of this stream...