The moonbeam traveled through the wide-open space, through nothingness,
then bending over some celestial beings, with increased speed,
cutting through all obstacles, piercing through the rough winds,
slowly reaching the surface, to that point where it wanted to reach,
suddenly stopping, is it the right path, the path that would lead itself,
itself to the destination?
It meandered past that unknown landscape,
where an unfinished muddy road made of red bricks,
meanders into a century-old banyan tree,
whose shade falls on a little village,
that leads to a thatched hut, where crickets,
those crickets have just started their evening symphony,
and a courtyard where a lantern,
a lantern’s sepia light swings gently in the cool breeze,
and in the handwoven mattress lies a beautiful, little baby,
quietly awake, sucking her thumb, lovingly.
The moonbeam falls on her little face, its final destination,
her bluish eyeballs that were fixated on the dancing evening cumulonimbi,
on the rustling leaves that played peekaboo,
now fell on this new focal point, this new whiteness,
and she smiled, her curious eyes pondering,
pondering on the source of that lilting light,
that would probably lull her cradle to sleep.
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