The Colour of the Blood of the Moon*

 The solitary moon glows

through out the night
Nothing stirs nothing happens
Few stars blink in a stupor.

At the wee hour
the lips of the night spreads
To blossom so many smiling milky white flowers
People assume the flowers have taken the white from the Sun.

The donor remains there in the day-sky unseen, silent.
The hooting owl couple knows, as they ecstatically exchange some quick jolly words to each other that echo from trees to trees ...
Kuum... kuuum... kummm ...
The yellow round beams of the eyes of the owl has seen the moon painstakingly painting each and every flower
One by one ...
When they wake up from the steep slides of the mother's womb ...

The darkness dances here and there knowing she has some colours now to cuddle and play with for a couple of hours... still she brims with joy and intoxication drips from her heavy limbs ...
She waves at the moon languidly and whispers, let's camp somewhere else in a far away land. I can hear the whirling wheels of the Sun' chariot.
The moon say, yes.

Together hand in hand they move
Through the half closed fairy tale books of the teenagers,
Towards a land where evening has started the initiation with the exhausted bodies of the general people, alert footsteps of the lion that leaves it's den for the night prowl, the blazing continuous fire of the medicant from a mountain top, the much awaited tinkling footsteps of the beloved.

Here ... 

They smile - the night and moon exchanging secret knowledge and settle down again...

*The Colour of the Blood of the Moon*

4.30am concieved
6.30 penned down