Orphic Lunar
She pointed her finger at the moon
It was late in the night
And she stood directly under the moon
At the point where her Father died
In the cemetery
And in between two goal poles
The cemetery was no longer a home for the dead
And concrete sepulchre served as goal poles
To the little boys who played soccer in the day
She stood right there alone
But conscious of a company
The moon
It seemed to be telling the little girl a story
The rains came
But she was not troubled
By the lightening and roaring thunderstorm
The winds were blowing harder
Empty graves were already flooding
Mysteriously she kept her stand undisturbed
Looking at the moon with a finger lifted at it
She wanted more from the moon
She knew something only her father knew
She knew how to talk to the moon
And she was already warning it
Perhaps, the moon got annoyed
And employed the aid of the storm and wind
To drive her away to time
The moon knew she owned her nothing
But the little girl all night stood
Demanding and screaming Till dawn broke a new day again
The boys returned in the afternoon to play soccer
Used the little girl as one pole to another dead grave
And hanged their shirts on her raised finger
And the rest of the boys sat on her dead father
In eager expectancy for their turn to play
The men came with their axe to finish the little girl
And cleared both the girl and father away.
( Disclaimer: The little girl was a lonely trunk which stood near the rest of its tree which was chopped off in a cemetery. The Poem is strictly a product of imagination and creativity, there was no time the Poet went to an abandoned cemetery at night in a thunderstorm. Please,I beg, don't want any rumours to start forming. Thank you!)
She pointed her finger at the moon
It was late in the night
And she stood directly under the moon
At the point where her Father died
In the cemetery
And in between two goal poles
The cemetery was no longer a home for the dead
And concrete sepulchre served as goal poles
To the little boys who played soccer in the day
She stood right there alone
But conscious of a company
The moon
It seemed to be telling the little girl a story
The rains came
But she was not troubled
By the lightening and roaring thunderstorm
The winds were blowing harder
Empty graves were already flooding
Mysteriously she kept her stand undisturbed
Looking at the moon with a finger lifted at it
She wanted more from the moon
She knew something only her father knew
She knew how to talk to the moon
And she was already warning it
Perhaps, the moon got annoyed
And employed the aid of the storm and wind
To drive her away to time
The moon knew she owned her nothing
But the little girl all night stood
Demanding and screaming Till dawn broke a new day again
The boys returned in the afternoon to play soccer
Used the little girl as one pole to another dead grave
And hanged their shirts on her raised finger
And the rest of the boys sat on her dead father
In eager expectancy for their turn to play
The men came with their axe to finish the little girl
And cleared both the girl and father away.
( Disclaimer: The little girl was a lonely trunk which stood near the rest of its tree which was chopped off in a cemetery. The Poem is strictly a product of imagination and creativity, there was no time the Poet went to an abandoned cemetery at night in a thunderstorm. Please,I beg, don't want any rumours to start forming. Thank you!)
0 comments:
Post a Comment