The sun drooped
the moon smiling
like a runner-up in an olympic.
In the waves of the night-
breeze whirling
amidst the brandish of the green grass
and whip at an infirm insect.
The vociferate of the frogs
cracking crickets-
embracing the evaded space.
Affright of villagers
young and aged
during the moonlight tale.
Alone,
on-looking the coarse striped ceiling
as though famished;
blanched eyes
betwixt whims and vagaries
unveiling the secret
of daylight.
Yelling-
Morning At Last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem