Each night an innocent moon walks down
to drink from a lake.
Each night it dies, crossing
the whirlpool of its shades.
At dawn, when the lake disappears,
sand and wind meet
to ration Sun’s rage-broken sip.
And then the wind sculpts a mountain
with trees, streams and fountain,
and sand sculpts the wind
as water flows upstream.
The mountain is an Escher
with trees, monkeys and birds.
Wind’s the master of this circus.
Regis
Aberjhani