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For when light's elumimation fades in rest, and the divine bodies are revealed in the forsaken sky.
The humbled moon, arises from her slumber. Casting a shared source of light upon the land - like a flame shared between two candles cast upon the wall.

The moon beamed it's light upon the walls of the land.
It's inhabitance like ants, a shadow did cast. For when the Moony Night comes forth, a deep pondering has beseiged the land;
Mysteries decifered, as thoughts become experiments in the cool of the eve.

In the silence of dusk, laughter does erupt;
The ticking of gears within, can be observed - like the song, sung by the crickets.
Oh, how indulging the observer of night can become.
For in the elumination on a Moony Night, one's soul does takes flight.
I was sitting down outside watching the moon rise. I was rather taken aback at the depths of thought I was ariving at - so I wrote this from that inspiration.
In the quiet does one hear the elegance of Wisdom as she passes by.
When one stops in the calmness of themselves, they may perceive her touch.
For when she touches one - insight is given like water filling the depths of an empty well.

Where worry cuts off the ability to think and move, Wisdom’s touch removes the debris around.
Relief’s sigh exonerates within the depths of one’s soul - the freedom from our circumstantial prison;

The insights, a robust fountain that springs forth from the depths of one's reality, their being floating in the ebb and flow.
How wonderous is Wisdom's touch?
For the waters of reality becomes enlightened to the ones marked by her fingerprints.
I wrote this poem based from the concept of being touched by Lady Wisdom (גבירה חכמה). As I pondered on this concept, this poem simply flowed.
Beautiful, is the sight of depths within one’s eyes.
Like Celestial bodies magnified in the confines of the ocular speck.
As if Nebuli birthing Stars, revolving around a Blackhole,
or that of a storm circling the pockets of Gravity.

Who can escape the entrapment of wonder, as they look within?
Curiosity like the peaks of the great Pyramid,
staring afar the belt of Orion - a child-like pondering.
All who see it, imparted with a glisten of glee - the ecstasy of hope within.
I was inspired to write this, as I stared into the eyes of a peer - as I stared therein, I saw a nebula of sorts.
In the dawn of days, dwells the awe of reverence.
In the thought of dwellers, can the awe be thread.

Within the small things, herein lies the pieces.
The pieces that make-up the direction of things that exist.

For the boulders at a mountain's mighty face, are no more important than the stones that form the base.
For it is in the reverence that we craft love from awe.

Blessed are those who sit and watch, for they are the architects of reverence - the constructors of awe.
Inspired from my pondering of the importance of reverence.
Long taim mi sa mekim rong, gutpla tingting em i kamap. Em ikam na em i toktok wantem mi, na em i tok olsem, "Noken bisi long bihainim gris blong snek olsem ya, bihainim tok blong mi na bai yu inap".

Long nait, nek blo yu isave hamamasim mi. Na long moning, hanmak blong yu i woklo stiaim mi long ol gutpla gutpla rot igo long gutpla gutpla wara. Olgeta hevi i woklo lus.

Long taim mi pasim tingting stret long yu, orait mitupla ikam kamap pinis long maunten igo antap. Na antap blong em i antap moa winim ol klaut. Hau bai mi sakim tok blo yu o? Mi nonap, long wanem, tok blong yu i switpla tumas olsem hani i kapsait niupla tru long sait blong diwai. Bai mi hamamas moa yet na nomoa bihainim snek nem blong em, rong.
I wrote this poem in my mother tongue of Tokpisin. It is about how Wisdom comes and speaks to one about changing their ways.
In the crisp of morning, does edge of rest approach. For in the tents of great men do the warriors awaken in preparation for battle.

Sharpening their swords, fortifying their shields, girding their spears and dawning their armours - a crest for honour. Though amid the steadiness, do they await the word of their beloved monach.

"Sar-Shalom!" be the cries heard, echoeing upon the voices of the wind. Reaching even beyond the battlefields. The name of the monach, adored by the great men, anticipating the words to come.

Alas, wisdom comes on the voice of the wind: "In the vallies, will you victories come". Bewildered they stood, asking themselves "why?" But, their monach adorned in their love does their loyalty stand.

So, to the vallies do they march. Upon the word do they stand, anticipation honoured by their trust. For a hard battle will they fight, yet a grand victory will they know - a relief from their beloved.

From the peaks do they descend, and to the vallies do they arrive. The battlefield marked for honour by their seeing eyes;
Unsheathing are they ready, for the accusers come - but unexpecting are they, for the assurance declared in the meeting of blades.

The divines surrounding their accusers, is the battle endorsed for the victors. As they cut down even their final Goliaths. In the praises given up on the voices of the wind, does Sar-Shalom hear the chants - His great men, now the victories of Eden.

Now the journey do they cherish, in returning to their home. The tents of great men, now victories on the heights. What more shall be done? But to sing in glee. For the enemies borders are lost in the restoring victory.

Their wounds shall heal, and bruises shall fade, but the songs of glee shall ring out through time, eternal;
Oh, the voices of the winds chant forever "Victory in the Vallies!"
As the breeze flows from the heights, and the leaves take flight. There sat a sage beneath the Mango Tree, with a keen eye he deliberated in observation.

With deep ponderings the sage gazed, feeling the gears tick within his brain. A depth of thirst for the waters in the well called Knowledge.

Within his mind, the universe he could see. Nothing to be hidden from the melody resounding from the ticking gears within.

Taking his staff, he crafts metaphors into the ground - like a vision a passerby can heed. Hours go by and the visions grow. The crafting like an evergreen bloom, forever elaborating.

From dawn to dusk, he ponders. Yet, dusk til dawn he crafts. For meaning he holds for the generations, a drink he gives from the wells of knowledge - a delight fulfilled for he.

The ecstacy swirls within, the fullness of purpose the sage perceives. What more can he do? The lineage of his nation does he hold. The lessons of old will he pass on to the lineage of modern succession - a quest embarked by the wise.
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