Cantata

She is red as
The welcoming dawn,
Clothed in nothing save
Morning dew
And the blood red
Light of the sun.
And her voice soars higher
Than the clouds,
Than the mountains.
The birds envied her,
So sang as one in an attempt
To defy her.

As if they ever could…

For there is but one
Who can match her,
Dressed impeccably in white
And the dark of the night.

And his voice echoes through
The very bowels of the earth,
Under the deepest seas,
Beneath every field and forest and hill,
In complete harmony yet contradictory
To morning's song.

It could easily be an opera,
This simple life of ours.
All it takes is eyes, ears
And the will to
See and hear.