It was night still; or else
The glowing stars held fast
The fading cloth of dark
To their naked bosoms
In shame, until the last
Of the night, slunk
Out of their grip
Like a flame,
That was never lit.
When everybody had left,
Fearing detection,
The moon buried in the grave
Was not cold yet.
Tortured nightlong, her tender limbs,
And her lips bore the traces
Of her silenced screams,
Fighting the hostile claws
Dug deep into her beams.
The blind gravedigger
Had seen the moon never,
Or in his courtyard puddle,
The sparkles of its shimmer.
But he knew the silver scent
Of the yard moon, that his barefoot
Splashed every day, on his sightless way.
Digging in his practised rhythm,
He thought, maybe all moons burn the same,
Anyway.
