The Chakor's Lute

The lone Star in my emptiness,

Blinds about the dark skies;

Who's to reach the roof above,

You are too far, and too high!

My extended hand slouches down,

By the ropes of, the words of giants;

You are out about, and out of the league,

 I am too low, with sly highs.

Your silver face with a hint of awe,

Glances down with slick winds;

Day by day I am losing you,

Or is it you who is hiding in?

The feathery clouds play along,

They weave a curtain with itsy smirks;

My fingers lie with brokenness,

They slip down in breezy irks.

The lush greens laugh aloud,

The waves clap in cheering hoots;

The mountains glide with breaking guffaws,

The poets ring their words in roots.

You vanish along the darker nights,

I breathe my last with tired mutes;

For you are the moon, and I the chakor,

I come to you my beloved lute!