Every month, the night sky hangs the ethereal full moon with pride.

The gaze of curious eyes and the awe of honey-dipped tongues sketch the dark solitude with the array of lively hues of praises. 

The crimson rivers too, rise every month, akin to the moon. 

The moon toils every night, through whatever phase it goes,

and patiently waits until it glows to its full glory every month. 

The crimson rivers emerge from primordial glaciers

 and flow down a rough terrain of throbbing thorns. 

Like the moon, they are children of nature, crafted with resilience and strength. 

But the rivers of rubies only get the hush and the whispers.

Embarrassment tints the shy orbs. 

Once in a month, flowing out of mother nature's vessel, still a delicate silence always veils the holy rivers, no matter how magical they are in their origin.