The golden burn of dusk
kisses my window panes and walls;
On table tops it rests,
the moon and stars it calls.
Far above the horizon,
the honey sun waves good-bye
With sighs of blues and purples,
its glory's end is nigh.
The birds sing their last songs
atop the birches' bough
And the sunset leave us thinking,
"What do we really know?"
In another world it is rising,
but right here it hides from view,
burying its face, so when morrow comes
we can marvel its glory anew.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
The golden burn of dusk
kisses my window panes and walls;
On table tops it rests,
the moon and stars it calls.
Far above the horizon,
the honey sun waves good-bye
With sighs of blues and purples,
its glory's end is nigh.
The birds sing their last songs
atop the birches' bough
And the sunset leave us thinking,
"What do we really know?"
In another world it is rising,
but right here it hides from view,
burying its face, so when morrow comes
we can marvel its glory anew.
