Poetry

How would you retrieve
the soul of moon? There was
not enough darkness.

Long back, the ink
was always black, and
the words would tremble
like aspen.

The echo comes
loudly resounding the green
valley's anguish.

Don't hit me,
by a vivid farewell. Buried
one's head in poems
somebody walks through you.

The wound had been― still raw.
A panther jumps on the antelope.