To tell the truth and not a wild, cold lie?

My fingers trailing in the river
I see the sun reflecting ripples fly
Would you like to be forever
In this   gliding boat until we die?
Or will you forsake  your illusions
To tell the truth and not a wild ,cold lie?

The sun is ideal as a  poet’s symbol
The god of fire and love and life.
The mighty one can make us tremble
Or burn the vision out our eyes.
Retinal tender, silky cobwebs
May not last until we  come to die

Many love the moon’s reflection;
Her silver crescent slender as a bone
And for many she’s perfection
While for others she’s a  smiling crone
In the gliding boat I still look upward
Silent,trembling,aching,all alone