Of the blue moon, crescent like,
An arrow head, hanging over me.
The landscaped night was once,
A waterfall of desire on a clenched soul.
The sun rays were cutting through,
The stones; this time, none is master,
None a disciple either, none in love.
The black clad women, a wish though,
None to judge, and nothing of fortune.
The coming was not unlike going.
No other thought either to think.
Nothing has gone ripened like fruit.
The dry faces, and wet eyes,
All look askance for some happening.
Making the Invisible Visible: artist not known
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