M.D Dinesh Nair
The Crescent Moon
Across the dark canvas of a scribbled sky
The crescent moon snails and
Amidst the patches of the cumulonimbus clouds
She begins to wither like an old spinster never wooed.
She veils her half face with the mask of light
And smiles at the poet whose heart is torn.
Then he releases a sigh from his mind
That a hundred suns cannot illuminate for a season.
In the wee hours of a night that pushes him into slumber
The crescent moon moves into her west or east.
In the dew of the dawn the mighty sun smiles as
The winged beauties fly off their nestles far.
The crescent moon disguises like a speck of light next
And she looks weird in the wilderness of earthly remains.
In the aisle of the land and the sky
She treads like a loner or a somnambulist.
On seeing her curved grandeur of fading light
The poet longs to hold her in his hands for a while.
Whilst across the skies of woes his mind roams
This crescent moon goes in front of him.
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