It is a half crescent.
It looks nascent.
It tends to be stringent.
It has a status regent.
It grows with pleasure.
It wanes in measure.
It succumbs to pressure.
In a lethargic leisure.
Indeed it is a covetous treasure.
Every fortnight it grows in size.
Every other fortnight it demurely lies.
Its expansion has a phenomenal rise.
Its contraction has defeated ties.
Irresistbly it has a fascinating prize.
It shines in the night.
Emitting a cool light.
Expressing no flight.
Empowering a rational plight.
Indeed it delivers a lovely sight.
Does it not exhibit an analogue?
Does it not record a dialogue?
Does it not appear as a prologue?
Does it not sound like an epilogue?
Curiously it is not in thetreasure, leisure, ressure, pleasure, sight, catalogue.
Meenas Poems 