folded in the arms
of her beloved, the
infinite sky,
the moon seems to
blush a quite these days
Earlier it was silver
white,
But it appears to be
the colour of a rose purple-pink
nowadays…
sparkles oozing through
her rim
like an embellishment
tucked with precious gemstones,
freckles of stardust
shimmering like a frilled silverthread ribbon,
like a silken tapestry fluttering
at an invisible tone
as zillions of tiny little
stars
dance to a silent melody,
the moon herself spins
around, round and round
to the sky’s parody,
singing lores of love,
telling tales of the
ancient wild, in poetic sounds
a mysterious enigma of
romance,
pulsating in the chambers
of her heart
rhythms of quietness
chiming in her veins
delicious sweet flutes
playing inside her, part by part
this is a poem of her
romance,
but don’t take it to be
romantic anyway
it is not romantic, not
at all,
you will come to know
this,
only when the clinking white
moon
is born again as the blazing
golden sun
roaring fires in the mornings
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