I lit a candle under the new moon and was proud
of how bright it burned. The full moon
swallowed my tiny flame without a trace.


Even the hawkmoths
who haunted my window with such passion
in dark nights, abandoned my candle
for sky-borne glory.

The moon at the end of the month grows thin
devouring its own light. Forsaken moths wander the air
searching for the silver dust of midmonth.

Ramadan burns flesh as flame burns wax. Souls
circle the candles of the Nights of Power
on private miraj.

New moon leaves us famished for brilliance
that swallows our souls as the moon
swallows my candle.

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