The Moon and You

They say,

That the moon is brilliant tonight.
They point, and exclaim
And gape and claim
That nothing could be prettier than this sight,
Of the queen moon, holding court
In the ballroom of her sky.
Where the stars tremble like young maidens,
And the clouds with their smoky mustaches fly
And flit from one corner to another -
This girl or the other - while
the night lark minstrels the dancers on;
Lonely on the neem tree of my lonely garden lawn; yawns
When the stillness of the night gets to it; not for long:
The drink flows free and spirits are high.
The romance of the night
Creeps underneath the plump dresses of the plump stars, and they sigh
A collective sigh, and why
Not? The Queen Mother is holding court
In the ballroom of the sky.

This drunken poet sees with unseeing eyes,
The revelry of the night sky.
He has beheld his beloved, in the blush of the summer moon. Heard her call to him
In the whispering of the warm, night loo, and
The caresses of her silken hands he has felt
In the brushes of the dark wind
Through his dark hair. Nature's bounty
Makes me pine for you, the more for Her beauty.
How dare they show
Me, your lover, the trembling stars?
Do they not know that I have seen them a million times
In the pools of your liquid eyes, partially hidden by the clouds
Of glassy obscuration,
So necessary for ocular precision,
Yet adding to your loveliness, just like
The clouds add character to the moon?
I, who have found my raison d’être (pardon my French),
In hard-won sighs of love dripping from your clenched
Lips; what do I care
For the singing of the night birds?

I, who have found you: what do I care for the world?