My Indian crescent moon [-poem-]

My Indian crescent moon

A crescent moon
Low. gazing at me. Wildly.
Just above a sugar cane field
Orange, stained of turmeric.
Pointing to the heavens
Not lying on its side
A curse of the stateside moon perhaps.

A crescent moon
Is it waxing or is it waning
Will it dim, gently dying out
Or will it bloom and blossom
Into the flame some choose to follow
To worship. To adore.
Only time will tell.

A crescent moon
Doing nothing to light the faces
Of women in shawls
Of men in turbans
Of cows dawdling, spoiled
On the roadside

A crescent moon
My moon.

A crescent moon
My heart.

A crescent moon.
Guide me
Feed me.

My Indian crescent moon.

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