I have heard that 
ribs of the moon are 
so delicate that 
it takes the mythical rabbit 
in its lap to feed stories.
So, it would be cruel of me 
to pray for a celestial hug, 
because I weight of grief 
which can turn it into 
an extinct poem.
My grief picks scars 
from pillows and buries it 
inside oceans, where 
the whales sing elegies 
and the fish wear mourning veils.
My grief is a tongue less snake,
moving swiftly in the crowd 
and easily in silence,
mute and deadly.
It is a bat,
eating flowers and grass, 
flying in nights with a yawn 
that makes tiny joys scream.
It is a root, 
severed by an axe, but
pretending to be a bloom,
even in the days when 
summer takes rest inside heaven's cup.
It is a piece of my heart 
sunbathing in a butcher's stand,
asking to be forgiven 
for everything it feels and 
sighs that atleast its me, 
not my beloved.
It speaks to the moon
in the language of mutiny, 
when the wedding procession
of my beloved passes my city.
It asks the moon to be the torch, 
to be a little brighter,
Because my grief knows 
him more than 
his own happiness. 

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