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The women sing songs to the moon,  
Praising its beauty.  
They dance and sing when it’s in its full glow,  
Their souls ascending and descending,  
Transformed into priestesses.  

The men venture into the forest at twilight every fortnight.  
There, an unveiling and a revealing take place.  
The spirits commune with them in the tranquil ambience,  
Warning them about any impending danger,  
Sharing mysteries that are soon to enter their territory.  
The men become gifted watchmen.  

Something astonishing happens with the sun.  
At midday, it beams its rays on a vast meadow,  
Where the plants are exuberantly green.  
These are called the Blessed Bloom,  
An elixir of vitality and rejuvenation.  

The atmosphere is clean and fresh.  
There is no conflict between humans and machines,  
No exploitation of nature,  
No encroaching on her space.  
The leash has not taken the lead.  

I asked to know where I am,  
And I met a stranger who looked familiar.  
He said I’m in an unsoiled place,  
An unaltered place,  
An alternate universe.


April 8, 2025.

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