The ancient city is not harsh, surely not in itself,
Looks forward to the lights turning into bonfires
A whisper and then the prolong silence,
The tenderly sibilant rhyme sounds,
As if all notes of the night are echoes
And all echoes are subtle low notes.
It used to be most moving and inimitable moments
Nugget like moon yearns for respectability,
Interrupted by the tiny yet masculine stars
Looks back haltingly with a hand shading eyes,
What it may be, to shatter the solitude,
Upon those reflections in the shining river water,
Balance between the two but committing to neither,
To push the time farther and farther out of reach.