Poetry

Grazing on the clouds, 
moon was moving 
in a daze. 
 
Someone will milk it 
for the poor, who will not 
sing for the inevitable. 
 
Witch hazel will stop the 
bleed of unholy wars 
between the diminutive fidelities. 
 
This was the beginning 
of a dialogue― meant for 
the deaf― who will listen with the eyes. 
 
There was no consolation 
for a man who lost his finger 
while searching his ring.