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Waxing and Waning
It is the scimitar moon that moves me,
dripping gold against the blackness of the night;
burnished and fiery,
poised as though to pierce the heavens,
honed and sharp as though to strike them down.
What enemies do You have, I wonder,
that You must wear Your weapons so close at hand?
I puzzle over the nature of Your discernment,
how well You know our hungers,
how well You know our delights,
our fears, our greed, our obsessions.
Most of all, I puzzle
over the ways in which You keep Your power so well hidden.
It whispers through, now and again, You know:
when Your edges show,
and Your fierce beauty blazons forth -
some strange sorcery bewitching the eye
enchanting the senses,
an odd alchemy of the imagination.
until we think you mild again,
a passing afrit, pleasant
The scimitar moon, however, tells a different tale
and I will heed its warning;
and make my offerings beneath You in the blackness
lest I feel its bite when my own discernment fails.
© Galina Krasskova
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