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An Angry Moon

I used to walk
Long distances every evening,
Right across the horizon
Where a tranquil lake
Slept under the caressing skies
And every night the moon
Showered me with
Benign white light,
And the trees would
Bathe in the moonlight
As if snow has just fallen over them
And cherish the love
Which the skies have showered
And in silence,
We sat.
Me and the lake,
We talked many things
And the night understood
Which escaped
The comprehension of the day.
We drank
The emotions and drenched
Our souls,
As the bitter sweet liquid
Of words, of poetry
Moved through the throat,
With a burning sensation.
And then
Suddenly selfish sloth
Crept through
The grass and bit me on the toes,
And in a slumber
I fell,
I slept for something
Like a century,
And when I woke up
In drunk stupor,
Middle aged,
With broken glasses
Of failed idealism,
Around me,
And the benevolent moon
Turned its face away,
Annoyed and disgusted.
I rose
Slowly, with silent submission
As brittle brutal truth
Pierced on the naked feet
In the darkness.
I shook my head and few words
Still lying on the ground
Out of the poetry which fell
On the ground
Lit a path
In the grass,
I stumbled through
The brittle glasses
As the lake slept
Dead, and uninterested
As if it did not know me
And the years of company
Never existed.
Suddenly,
I could hear a match struck
And a candle lit
Which fought a feeble battle
Against the dreadful dark
I rose and tried to find a way
Out of the place
Alphabet by alphabet
Word by word.
I collected all the words
Which fell from
The trees in the night
And lit a bonfire
Besides the lake and waited for
The renewed love of
An angry moon,
To wash the Earth, the lake
And me with its
Kind whiteness,
Once again.

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