Before the breaking of dawn,
The early morning sky is a personal space,
Neither the pigeons have woken up,
Nor the cuckoo has found her voice,
The wind is frolicking in another sky,
The trees stand dignified,
In this darkest hour the nightmare runs dry,
And sleepy eyes stare at the inscrutable blue,
Wondering how all the elements know the sacred hour,
When the whole of creation falls silent,
To experience itself...
In this intimate sky,
It’s mystical,
This confluence of the creator and the created.
No comments:
Post a Comment