Morning sun, a golden stream, stands motionless above the land, its golden wings spill a quiet sacred rod. Morning counts the minutes, time hidden in the palm, dawn carved into the heart, In the depths of the soul a shy ray. It's nothing, just a dream, it will leave with the first ray, with a lost key, fleeting smoke and shadow. It's nothing, just a sigh that flies beyond the horizon, a lonely sponsor, a quiet, hidden breath. It is nothing, just a whisper, left by the wind within the grass, the echo that now sounds like barking. It is nothing, just falling leaf, lost in the tangle of branches, a harbinger of the cold that must come. It is nothing, just a moment of pause, between breath and exhale, life rings quietly.
