In the abstract light of the moon is cleansed the inner stillness of the current,
In the voice of the current rings the shimmer of moon-enchanted prayer,
Light blooms in the dark with an eternal kiss,
Water becomes language, the soul melts into sensation,
Silent alphabets stir upon the breast of the stream.

From the deep stillness of the horizon, the voice rises from the navel-root,
Is written a nocturnal lunar autobiography,
In the rays of the moon trembles the hidden burn of thirst,
The river listens — to primal raga, to searing pain, to the ballad of compassion,
Within ebb and tide is composed the script of silence.

Water does not cry, it flows with ancient vows washed in moonlight—
No name, no identity, only the Vedic line of sorrow,
Within pain remains the voice of reassurance,
In moonlight’s stream of rebirth is the quiet call of love—
Water — an eternal poet, with the moon as pen, and time-wounded ink.

The soul is like a river — learning to forget, love flows in silence,
The moon is not just light but a monsoon vision intoxicated in reflective remorse,
In the heatless affection of the moon is born the deep song of silence,
The voice of the river becomes the echo of wisdom, a stream-bound hour.
Sorrow and love — a fluvial tale, an unuttered grievance.