The dead moon’s framed portrait Hung from the prussian blue sky, Staring downwards into the Lighted lonely city – With a well practiced air Of indifference.
The pond with green waters And a cemented bank, Where local kids wash their feet After a football match, Has fallen silent at this hour Flaunting unabashedly a cheap replica – Of the dead moon’s yellowing portrait.
The oil came deep, from underneath. the earth could bleed, her blood was black. But men knew not___ they pierced her skin. It all seemed fair, but deep within. She cried aloud, and gasped for air. They took her oil,