Christening the bleak of grey;
The paradox of dark and day,
Confined to single Moment’s blush
for longer light the earthly lust.
Is a time now, gone and past
Never to return to us--
but as a play wait in the next.
And so, until then there shall rest
within the shadow lurking there
until the close of Silver’s glare.
A briskness in the air shall be;
A sigh the ground itself shall heave
To welcome in the martyred sight
Of Sun’s rare gleam: contained contrite.
Hid in orange countenance,
The plague of guilt in present, is.
To down below a bashful peek
To witness Human purity
And watch it leave as soon as rises
we forget the dawn behind us.