A pilot who can’t land,
a poet who can’t sing,
withering in my reality,
Standing on the bank of a canal,
few feet from the estuary;
My heart in a million pieces,
strewn across on the opposite bank.
With the tallest trees on my end
for me to cut down,
make a bridge,
make a raft,
but I forgot my axe where the music faded.
Sitting on the bank,
staring at the fragments, now reflecting moonlight,
while she watches me from her throne, and laughs,
while I laugh at her wasted beauty;
The moonshine mistress of the sun.
A billion fireflies around the trees,
and a million hovering just above the waters of red;
They twinkle more brightly and more vigorously than the stars tonight;
Putting them to shame as they cower behind their moon maiden,
while she keeps me company tonight.
And the fireflies flicker,
and shimmer as they dance in naked lust;
My lust lay spread across, so close, but just out of reach;
Drenched pieces shiny and blue in my breathless blood stains;
And it rains.
Tonight in my moonlit dream of waters and fireflies.
By: Viraj Belgaonkar