Just before the dying of dawn

Tranquil songs of beguiling birds will imbue the air

And the rise of the soulful sun will paint the eastern sky orange.

The beads of dew on grass will forget to roll down the blades

Thus their fractured glitter will leave a sour taste in your mouth

Almost reflecting back the splendour of the mourning morning

While the air, hazy and almost tangible, will massage your skin into passing numbness.

And trees will bow in angst

In respect of the buoyant wind

In an appreciative gesture

For a morning so divine

Yet destined for imminent departure.



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