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Moon

 


Moon

Smita Agarwal (India)

 

Finally, the widow of the Sun,

 Claws off the grey veils

Dulling her;

She fights off the Palm

Attemptimg to imprison her

In its leaf-cage;

She demolishes the twenty storey

Tower block interrupting her;

She explodes onto the scene

Prima donna of the night

Generous with her light.

 

Now, she is the woman

Scouring the alleys of the old town

For her recalcitrant son

Out with dagger and gun.

I  hear her call out his name,

Repeatedly, as the dogs bark

And the battered police jeep

Plummets down the road, sirens screaming.

 

And, for all those dispossessed and orphaned

In way-out pockets of a lightless world,

She is that bowl of luminosity

Into which, because we exist,

More often than not, we let drop,

Love, compassion and humanity,

As small change ... as alms ...