The moon is red, and the moon is round
A traveler's endpoint not yet found
The place smells not like a dying hound
For what ties the soil is blood not bound
On the earth as man fixes his eyes
He sees nothing else but bitter lies
Hears nothing else but blood-curdling cries
Feels nothing else but hope which soon dies
Is there still chance for this world to live
In a place where man won't have to grieve?
Souls of the dead cannot be retrieved
Are wars the only things man achieves?
The moon is round and the moon is red
Must battles always end in bloodshed?
Man, on every merciless path treads
And never seems exhausted from dread
Round is the moon, red as it is
Can man not patiently work for peace
Accept others for their qualities
So the universe can flow with bliss?
Red is the moon, and round it may be
It stands for those deeds which are bloody
Can man not alter that imagery
Of the crimson ground of mutiny?
Can the red round moon's shape symbolize
A cycle of harmony realized?
Can its brilliant hue immortalize
Man's passion to calmly organize?