The Cry

The incomplete story of the red Moon,
Floating in the fragrance of the night,
Stops,on the silence of her face--
On her trembling lashes, 
Like the furled bud, waiting,
To be touched by the Sun.
The night smiles,caressing 
The light,dancing on her smile,
And gleaming on the tendrils
Kissing her unlined brows.
The Moon shares her soft pillow
Lies there a little while longer.
He stalls the day from appearing,
That rushes away, leaving behind
The jagged pieces of broken dreams.
The strain of a flute sobs in the dark.
      Who plays?The west wind?
          Is it a plea? For what?
For sleep,to weave a complete dream?
                                                      Chandni