Shooting Star

He was crazy, of course.
From the first she must have known it.
But still she went on with him,
And she never once had shown it.
And she took him off the street,
And she dried his tears of grieving.
She listened to his visions;
She believed in his believing.
Oh, he was the sun burning bright and brittle,
And she was the moon shining back his light a little.
He was a shooting star; she was softer and more slowly.
He could not make things possible, but she could make them holy.
Holy
He was dancing to some music
No one else had ever heard.
He'd speak in unknown languages;
She would translate every word.
And then when the world was laughing
At his castles in the sky,
She'd hold him in her body
Till he once again could fly.
Oh, he was the sun burning bright and brittle,
And she was the moon shining back his light a little.
He was a shooting star; she was softer and more slowly.
He could not make things possible, but she could make them holy.
Holy
Well, she gave him a daughter
And she gave him a son
She was a mother, and a wife,
And a lover when the day was done
He was too far gone for giving love;
What he offered in its stead
Was the knowledge she was the only thing
That was not in his head.
He took off East one morning
Towards the rising sun's red glow.
She knew he was going nowhere,
But, of course, she let him go.
And as she stood and watched him dwindle,
Much too empty to be sad.
He reappeared beside her saying,
"You're all I've ever had."
Oh, he was the sun burning bright and brittle,
And she was the moon shining back his light a little.
He was a shooting star; she was softer and more slowly.
He could not make things possible, but she could make them holy.
Holy