You promised
under the scorching heat of the April sky
to bridge the span of
miles of blueness
on the eighth
circling of the Moon's silver orb...
You promised
in between the distance
and the steady, monotonous clicking sound
of the gadget that momentarily makes this
distance bearable
to replace the lashing cold
whip of the the cruel monsoon
of that eighth circling of the Moon
with your emanating presence
So when the biraho grasses
yielded their whiteness,
making my wait almost ethereal,
I was delighted with the fact that soon,
it's going to be November....
yet, the eighth circling of the Moon
since the day that you've given your
promises passed....
...but I'll just extend my last year's November 'til now.
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