Tag: Night

Futile Promises – A Moon Song

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

It’s five in the morning
The moon hangs over a cloud:
Just as lonesome as I,
Wondering, if silence is just as loud
As a future goodbye.

I have no promises to fulfill;
You have none that you can keep;
The moon whispers none to me:
Gives me no certainty of sleep,
And of rest, no guarantee.

I shall see you again now;
But, after a while, you will disappear.
There will be just me and the moon
And it has always been clear:
A heartbreak is due very soon.

Promises are futile. They break.
Once there is a parting, it is done.
Love has no say in the sundering.
All will be left to dry out in the sun
As stark daylight comes plundering.

It will charge out, in a dust and a storm,
And words will be torn and taken,
To different lands and different skies,
And I shall once again awaken,
When the cruel sun tires out and dies.

Here I Am – A Moon Song

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Here I am again.
Looking at the moon.
Somewhere in my heart
There beats a familiar tune.

She sings to the sky –
She shines through the night.
I have loved her before –
I have been loved by light.

The sun struggles to rise;
This love triangle I know;
The moon lies and lies and lies;
But the sun burns me so.

So I crave for the dark
And, when the sky is night,
I yearn for her crescent
That waxes so bright.

But I’ve heard her song,
It may cut like a knife,
The illusion of love
Is much cause for strife.

The moon shall wane,
She will break me with pain;
The sun will laugh and laugh
When he rises, unfailingly, again.

I used to wish upon a star;
But wishes are games;
When you wish upon stars,
Who remembers their names?

They are but suns,
That will someday die,
Or will just erupt
And shoot out of the sky.

I rely on the moon.
She dispels all noise.
She wanes and she waxes;
But never destroys.

I look to her for counsel,
She never gives it clear;
Since I turn to her often,
She holds me very dear.

So I sit quiet and stare,
I do not complain,
She knows me by now,
She soothes most of my pain.

She is my muse,
I depend on her face,
She trumps the sun,
For she taught me grace.

The Fan’s Woe

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The night has lain down, once more, on my tiny bed;
The silence is broken, by a fan overhead;
Darkness is lit, by flutterings of windowed light;
Images from the day still burn into my sight.
Your hands on my body still leave tendrils of fire;
Yet it was never just a matter of desire –
There was that bittersweet yearning I thought had gone:
Something that had no hope of being reborn.
I surmised wisdom made sure it was left behind –
A few lessons, growing older had taught the mind;
But here it lies, near night, yearning for touch again;
No matter that it comes with the sure price of pain.

The fan creaks, speaking, it tells me, it knows it all,
It has been technical witness to each shortfall.
It blusters the air doing its job as always,
It has seen all that leaves and felt who stays.
So now it addresses me, like a parent dear,
While the darkness addresses all of my fear.
There is not very much to say or do but write;
Maybe this is how I regain clarity of sight.
My eyes droop and I think of his bright, tawny stare,
His head bent over my body, his tousled hair,
My fingers in it, as he tastes a part of me,
Which has been savoured by, oh, so many,
And, I must say, if pain is the sole attraction,
This just goes to speak of my sad heart’s detraction,
And Loneliness that never, truly, left my bed,
Unless you include the groaning fan overhead.