Moonlight Through The Filters

At the foot of the
burning candle, a dancing
shadow gives you a call.

In moment of
hubris, all chandeliers
will crash and prehistoric dirt
will cling to hairy legs.

The taste of berries
was changing. In deep
autumn only skeletons
talk.

Near the lamp
festival, we will watch
the leaking sky. The
aliens would have the last laugh.

The time turns
back the clocks. The
defiant mood will bring out
the beautiful masks.

Satish Verma