Crescent

By Mayank Gupta

There is a crescent that hangs in the sky.

From its corner drips butter.

The lonely brings their palm

and hold on

to the buttery friend.

The forlorn and lost souls

bathe in its buttery radiance

and find their way.

The crescent hears stories

of unrequited love

- of love that is lost

and melts and weeps

its buttery tears.

The butter is nothing

but an elixir for the sick.

The crescent is calm

for those who are anxious

and holds its fire

for the depressed.

The crescent is witness

to cries that wail

the search and quest

of identities and love.

It is witness to bonds-

bonds that are formed,

that could have been formed,

and bonds that should have been kept.

It is also witness to bonds

that should not be kept,

bonds that have been broken,

and bonds that should have been broken.

The crescent is mystical

and mysterious and magical. Sometimes I step into my balcony,

with my elbows resting on the parapet

I look above,

and find it smiling.

I wonder why

the shape for heart

is not a crescent.

By Mayank Gupta