A new day crept through my open window.
A whisper of yesterday presses its hands against my swollen belly. 
Hunger rises in my hunters core.

Outside, I hear the dance of tribal song. 
I ponder it’s significance. 

Where does the sun breed it’s beacon? 

I toss and turn,
My dreams still play against my honor. 

The breast of winter has wishes to play accordance, But
I beg for summer daze.

I open my music box to hear sounds of relevance, 
And quiver.