Lament of the Day

I hate a pure blue sky,

            The sun beats down heavily, rudely, burning.

            The wind is hardly apparent, nothing cools the scorched limbs

            There is brightness everywhere, but what is brightness

Without shadows?

I prefer rather the white-and greys of the clouds,

            The cumulus, cumulating as it were.

            Into patches of shadow; heavenly rooftops that defy the harshness of the sun.

            Breeze blows softly, and the rolling of the great shapes in heaven

Daren’t give way.

I love truly the twilight,

            The pink and red and grey of a sky that was once a proud blue,

            Now nearly torn asunder,

            Now the great human gashes filter Ra’s callousness,

            And softly the hearts of those below are put to rest,

Beating slowly within soft breasts,

Travelling slowly into night,

            where harshness is a memory and yet

            fear is current law,

            Then we take to our own roofs, our own shadows

And manifest our own suns, the harshness we missed while it remained a gift.

Dawn is a promise of another gift,

            Work is done outside,

            And while the sun has not yet come through, we rejoice

            That while the day remains, there will be harshness,

            And that while the night remains, there will be cold fear,

            But in between,

there lie the moments we truly wait for.