Midnight cobalt, trimmed with gold,
rippling with subtle cold.
Fireflies ablaze the sky,
and in the breeze the willows cry.
What sadness caused this beauty here?
Who gathered up all the sky's tears?
A fortress guards this beauty well,
this barricaded citadel,
of emerald peaks and auburn towers,
whose residents dream for hours.
But in the morn a God will rise,
and open all the dreamers' eyes.
A lullaby, sung to the stars,
who protest, "Hey, this sky is ours."
Their fate is written, that's for sure,
perhaps the answer's just that pure.
Perhaps that brings this beauty here,
and in the sky wells up a tear.