The show is poetry in motion
even on the black canvas of the night
it remains a live showdown the stars
one that's hardly dark in the dark.
The fireflies fly through
highlighting in silver lines
that could barely shed new light
amid the spectator stars
eye on upon it from the far.
The sea in black in the night
billows with full of ink
only to wish to ink a beauty spot
above its forehead on a shining Moon-dew.
Looking down on it from the stars
the sea in black is bedewed with moonlight.
It’s not that there is no red no purple no colour
it's the garden of every morning's new sun
in bloom in the shady bud of the night.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC
The show is poetry in motion
even on the black canvas of the night
it remains a live showdown the stars
one that's hardly dark in the dark.
The fireflies fly through
highlighting in silver lines
that could barely shed new light
amid the spectator stars
eye on upon it from the far.
The sea in black in the night
billows with full of ink
only to wish to ink a beauty spot
above its forehead on a shining Moon-dew.
Looking down on it from the stars
the sea in black is bedewed with moonlight.
It’s not that there is no red no purple no colour
it's the garden of every morning's new sun
in bloom in the shady bud of the night.