Poetry

It was getting dark. 
The silence starts speaking 
to me in a whisper 
for the sake of secrecy. 
 
Right now, 
the violence will start 
between the summer night 
and a brilliant moon. 
I sit in a corner 
to watch the milk spilling. 
 
And then, after couple of hours 
an anonymous call from 
a cuckoo in distress. Somewhere 
a dry twig snaps off. Something 
is tossed in air. A shadow pokes 
at moon to return the favour. 
 
The dawn, drops the veil!