Poetry

When sun was
preparing to die, why
did you ask for the
soft moons― crimson red?

Searching an
unmarked shrine of
an unsung hermit.
Why people come and go?

You would not catch
the mockingbird, trying
to be shocking, to reach
you, for a melodious song.

You just liked
a god, who had come
as a stream of light
from a distant star.