Royina, I’ve heard the moon can still be seen,
From a corner of your terrace
In the oldest colony of the city.
The full moon.
The blood moon.
Shines, like a nightmare
And its cold light washes the tip of the mosque,
Beside my house.
Royina, there is a song my grandma used to sing,
When I was just a kid.
It said the moon is a land of miracles
And an old lady sits in
One of the craters
Waving her wand.
Royina, tonight is not the night, of the sane.
Full moons, have never been the muses of poets
They are darlings of the wretched.
They are the lovers, of wolves and the insane.
Who have learnt to live with cold moonlight, in their veins
All these years.