By Sloka Kadiyala
The moon, our satellite,
Glows brighter than a candle light.
The moon which rises like a phoenix,
Each dawn it dies.
The beautiful, beautiful moon,
She hides her lustre during the noon,
Only to come back soon,
Makes my heart go boom.
The moon, my celestial lantern,
Shows me hope, everyday, no matter the patter.
The moon, my best friend,
Follow me however the path ends.
The moon a beacon in dark,
Whose rays can’t reach you under the roof,
But is the hope,
And secret to cope,
Of the ones without.
The moon, or might I say you and I,
Who admire the purest form of a silent lie.
By Sloka Kadiyala
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