the moon in my city,  
a hazy crestfallen hue,

those who gaze up to
its beauty, remain few...  

the moon in my city,
betrays a tired air,

wrinkled stench in
reflection, oh despair!

the moon in my city,
glides the benign sky,  

paddles a silver paddle,
bemoaning why, why, why!

the moon is my city,
but has a mother's heart,

it forgives oh so easily,
so gently does it part,

for at the break of dawn,
or on a pensive twilight,

look, there is the moon,
in eternal evasive flight!

the moon in my city,  
the moon in my city...

eons before
puberty
set in

closer to
purity

light
years away
from sin

her name
was flame,
in the local
tongue

we were
eight, and
all she asked
me to do

was knot
up the left
shoulder
threads
of her
dress

it was
a quiet
childhood
moment

yet what
I felt then
was an
inkling
of love
probably

that hours
spent together
watching Tom
& Jerry on VHS

had culminated
to this sweet
little gesture
of innocence

there was a young leopard
that morning in the sun

on hearing our joyous footfalls
it hailed out, "Having fun?!"

alas, not knowing, poor thing,
we didn't follow jungle tongue

and off we ran in such haste
as a question kept hovering:

"Having fun?!"

drink her in,
a blue stream
vein at her wrist,
binding, unbinding
tress, thin bow of the
lips, whirlpool curls
at the ear, sea eyes,
as in her sure stride,
her sway, force of
an ebb, cutting away
at the sandbanks,
drink her in…