A no code poem for a sad century

The moon
Black clouds moving past it
In the black sky
I'm used to it
I grew up in the country.

Now that I'm citified
Words attach themselves
I don't commune with the moon
I have to describe it.

My first thoughts are
predictably lyrical
Cloud fronds reaching up over it
Are a woman covering her face.

Suddenly the clouds turn into
smoke from concentration camps
I realize that I'm thinking of
thousands of years of cruelty
Witnessed by the moon

Cold, silent, dead.

I think of millions of people
Who have looked up at the moon
In despair

Standing there
I have never felt this way before
It always seemed like a friend
But the clouds take on one sinister shape after another and I can't look at the moon anymore.