Night of the Sickle-Sharp Moon
Our ancient hermit leaves
his mountain cave,
weaves glad tales of freedom
for every slave.
As sickle-sharp moon slashes
silken sky,
dusk darkens purple, deeper
when lights die.
His eyes, black portholes
of a sunken ship,
like embers casting
a hypnotist's grip.
His voice, dried leaves dragged
along the sidewalk,
drones on in your sleep, you still
hear him talk.
Vanishes like an off-season
monsoon,
back the next night
of the sickle-sharp moon!
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