He is subtle over the horizon as the time strikes.
His colors, so rich, as he began to alter the tresses of her moonlight.
On the ground below, the land is quite wise;
And a creature looks up and observes above the horizon’s line.
O looking for those signals, indiscernible to the eye, the clock is forever ticking—will it ever be time?
So, nevertheless, there’s a deed that it can’t deny;
The **** rises early, always on time.
The longing soul cannot rest, for it must comply.
As the light of life ascends, on his own, to shine.
The sweet, dew-grass mist is redolent of past July’s.
While savoring the moments of their short, but daily, bind—the **** steals one last peek of the suns beauty until next time.
If the dear rooster had a button, it would turn back time, rewind—
As the air of dawn is caressed and
The **** waits, and the **** cries.
