…there is sadness in the face of the moon.
Marauders at the door.
Gory chunks on the floor.
those marauders;disgruntled fragments of the Sahara storms;
with blood as token toast,broke into our dozing homes,
transcending into our deepest dreams;their sword of enemy deep;
like thorny rain in soundless nightmare, their talons in our sleep.
Stained with blood,sweat and tears of fleeting souls.
When darkness fought the sun,marauds their pungent soles.
of whom our trust belie,
wade unto us but death;taking from our scream – delight.
Fiery storm – their whirling eye,raining tears of flame.
Left in painful emotional wrecks;our turgid hopes untamed.
Those marauders;of the sahara wind blown,
on those mountains south;sung macabre song,
beating Gatling drums;dancing us to early eternal beds.
terrified in the consuming-vastness of now empty beds,
an appalled receding fertility…
within decrepit walls;our western wisdom seek,
Soaked in loamy yield;our tillers hoe speak,
market wrappers dodging glides;steady-vigour-taint,
four legged fielders stride;devouring may green paint.
Hither came marauders,as ruthless as jungle beasts
engaged on sumptuous fields;trampled upon our peace.
When their bullets greeted,responded our hoes;
as we dug for life,our eyes almost met our toes.
Stolen from us our breaths, our trunks on our birth soil rot;
left with rubbles of once earthen shelter;providence lot.
Echoes of our cries;marauders ignite,long shall lingers.
Like the dried-living-tree postures,skywards our praying fingers.
…there is sadness in the face of the moon;
but the sun once again promises laughter.