The Wolf Shall Always Have the Moon

I see a starry sky of leather,

Amidst of which lies a pale feather,

A moonlight silk to cry,

In this day-less sky.

 

A wolf walks down on the withered ground,

To the edge of a cliff brown,

And lets its whine to travel to the shrine,

And thumps the beat – “The moon shall always be mine.”

 

It howls and cries and lashes in its scars,

An attempt to pursue the farthest of the stars,

A cage behind thousands of bars,

To fight a tranquilizer injected in its rich fur tar.

 

Rest aside its numerous wounds,

As it soaks the blood like honey by a spoon,

However, the eyes of the wolf cascade back,

To the only last glance of the moon.

 

It shines back – All those burns on its skin bright,

To reach the wolf in its farthest of light,

To try to blind its foes’ sight,

And let the wolf wash away the breaches of spite.

 

The wolf cries and shrieks at the sword from the side,

But to the moon’s love does it have to abide,

All those moments when it pounced on that hail,

To the moon did it wish to sail.

 

“Always” I say to me,

“Always, there’s the moon above”

“Always, the wolf shall find its moon.”

Shall it have to wither in dust for it to fly,

As pain enhances its path to the sky,

Yet the poor wolf – doesn’t possess no sail,

For all that was lunged by a lie,

For what he’d done wasn’t another boon,

And the past and the present stung by a harpoon,

As at the cliff the sea brings to it a typhoon,

However, what he does possess is a tie,

As the earth shakes to the night of June,

The wolf shall always have the moon.

 

-                                 -  Krisha Shastri