Everything is so dark in front of me
in this lonely winter night,
and its utterly desserted in this darker side of wee hours
with none you could find amidst
this cold lonely winter night.
I am lying beneath these kissing waters,
musing in the midnight,
stoned and intoxicated feeling the gag inside,
the stolid me trying to embark
on a queer muse over the darkness
in front of me and the tiny scattered dots
of white sheen inside this vast spread
of dark on a lonely winter night.
Am i seeing a hunter, is it,
is that the hunter’s grouping,
as they call them in the mythology of greek.
He is holding his weapon raised right above his head,
and like a demon he stands,
so fierce and wild could you capture his eyes,
so obdurate and staunch could you perceive his stature,
the triplet in the middle of his body,
the three dots spaced between equal distance,
the sign should say of this enigmatic creature’s identity,
the hunter’s triplet as they call it
in the myth in this northern sky.
Lying in the gentle waves
I am musing in the midnight
upon this vast sea of darkness
holding its dots of white sheen so queer and so lull,
alongside this chill breeze of obscure urges
wherein you could nt figure the dark or its dots,
the way you would have wanted to,
could neither figure the enigma inside
nor its nonchalant random interpretations
or perhaps its illusory ideas behind,
in a inebriated mind’s swing by on a lonely winter’s night.