"nestling" poems
Dearest Destined Jewel,
Of longest heartfelt yearning, Bestow on thee, Hamlet awaits, Ophelia picking flowers, Magnolia branches speaking, Beautifications of Spring.
Supreme buds of new life, Magnoliaceae of Queen bees, An enterprise of wonder, Symbolic child's enchanted play, Faeries in flight whisper attractions, Fondness, Les fleurs du mal.
Ample blossoms, Bosoms of delight, Devouring light, Little birds sing, Nestling, Chirping a languishing cacophony, Blissful unawareness, Nature nurture the soul.
A slip then fall, Nearby church bells distract, Into abyss fallen, Elevated body all at once, Floating amidst flora, Drowning, Petticoat woven dress, Resting on fresh valley water, Immersion, No contention, Hamlet awaits.
© Sia Jane
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
I laid my body on the tall grass.
She wrapped me in a rustle of green.
I closed my eyes in the shadow of a tall pine,
curling up so the pain wouldn’t spill beyond my heart.
Consciousness sinks into nothingness.
I feel the particles of my “self”
breaking into a million molecules.
I flow through the grass and seep into the earth.
Now my body puts down roots,
nestling against the pine that weeps with resin.
My emotions pass through the trunk of the tree.
The thread of memories is a long earthworm,
crawling through the empty
corridors where once blood pulsed.
White bones remain still,
slowly dissolving into the vessel of eternal life:
Earth, water, air, lost particles of light,
and my longing for the final union.
Doubts hollow a chamber,
soft and warm – my new home.
When my dream ends,
I will dwell in it.
Now I am the pine.
My needles, bark, and resin
radiate invisible light
for this space, for this world.
Yes, I was once human.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:16 PM UTC
Melancholy,
you spiteful *****
Creeping in,
seeping ever deeper
into my bones.
Nestling in and making
a nice little home for yourself.
You weren't invited in here
And yet you come in, obviously
planning a lengthy stay.
Please just go the **** away.
I can't stand it
when you come around
And hound me from the inside
Pounding on my brain
Controlling my very
train of thought
And surrounding my soul.
You threaten to
swallow me whole
You ravenous *****
And to tell the truth
I'm utterly bored with
this little dance we have.
Just stop, cease this game.
You have no place here.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
.
Her charms cannot be hidden,
laying languid in soft repose,
cloaked in dreams of night,
to her secret fantasies she goes.
Doe eyes closed in star sleep,
sweet gentle breath from parted lips.
A shift of woven mist she wears,
nestling flirtatious about slim hips.
A moment stirs her silent rest,
a sigh, rises, pours and escapes.
Anticipating beauty, the inner promise,
of doe eyes when she wakes.
© Pagan Paul (26/11/16)
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Where did we split off?
Was it the train?
Was I running after your solemn face staring at me through a windowpane?
Did we part ways in an enchanted forest?
Or perhaps it was in the depths of my cold room
Nestling under the covers
Begging warmth from each other?
I’m not sure, but in these moments of longing, I always remember you.
You’re still with me.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
by
rgpage
in this late hour on a mid-august night
the day's torturous heat now just a trace.
with heaven's dark sky splattered star light bright
and with the moon's help, how they now illuminate.
naked to the night on a blanket she waits
from a crystal flute she sips her wine.
its acrid taste makes her body brace,
and her silky skin to shine.
our lady awaits anticipates the night of love to be,
she's made her nest in secluded style
away from prying eyes, alone in the night
she patiently waits for her lover to arrive.
her warm body bathes in the evening breeze
eyes closed she lets her fingers roam,
her half-erect ******* she'll gently squeeze
'til engorged with blood they flush fully grown.
laying a hand to her most sensitive spot
the cradle of life's onset if you will,
her first finger eases itself into place,
and deftly a second does follow.
slowly and softly in clockwise rotation
wishing it were her lover's trace;
the effect was good with her hip's gentle motion
her soul now wrapped in silk and lace.
with quiet stealth on an old forest path
her mate breaks out of the tall trees cover,
spotting his sensual prey's silhouette
naked and silent he slips toward his lover.
feeling his presents her eyes slightly open
towering above her as tall as the trees,
she sees her muscular handsome young swain
in time to see him drop to his knees.
leaning in he gives her soft kiss'
his hand tracks her ******* with a gentle lover's mirth,
slowly and gently he brings her along, with a
touch as soft as a feather's fall to earth.
reaching forth and touching his face
and gently pulling him down to her lips,
they lightly touch then drift apart
as he makes his way to her ******* and hips.
the time is not urgent there's no wasted efforts,
every inch of her skin he greets with a kiss,
as a hungry lion studies his prey
not a single sound made, nor morsel missed.
seductively firm he leads her to ******
she honors his every wish and whim.
knowing his every move leads to pleasure
from pleasure to rapture time and again.
as the moon crosses over making way for the day,
and the star's disappear in the sun's early light.
our lady awakens alone where she lay
her mysterious lover is gone with the night…
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
Cascades of red in Hedgehog Houle
The beginning of Autumn falls over
And breaks the greenest in morning
We pass the church arched doorway
And the hawthorn berries brightest.
Walking the steady step in this day
Finding the bend the windy winds
Show me little Alfie in his nestling
For love carries everything trusting
This pathway of flowing memories.
Love Mary **
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
History of the homeless,
Society does not bless,
So unlike birds homeless,
Flying afar and so free,
Nestling into any tree,
Waking up so chirpy.
Not like humans homeless,
Society does not bless,
All these homeless young,
Did they get enough hugs?
Or was it too many drugs?
Or ****** abuse of their youth?
What's the history of the homeless--
Society does not always bless.......
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
I want you to love me in a sweater,
grey,
cable knit,
a little too big.
I'll wrap my arms around you,
like fluffy wings,
keep you safe for a change.
(There is something about you that makes me want to.)
We will tangle up in warmth,
and I'll curl my fingers in your hair and press kisses in each curl.
The contentedness between us will be tangible,
filling the air around us.
I want you to love me in the soft way that I love you,
Warm linen sheet-like,
A nestling-into-you kind of thing.
We fit together,
you and I.
Just right.
I want to feel your sleepy breath on my neck,
your lovely eyes fixed on mine.
Your fingers can trail along my shoulders,
your chest can heave contented sighs.
The crook of your arm could be my pillow,
the space between us nonexistent.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
The awake hummingbird flits,
At speeds beyond imagination over dark daisies and roses,
Little Pearls unerringly grow in deep ocean sands,
Concealed behind deceiving waters from the times of Moses.
A wobbling chair shifts on the glistening porch,
By the sands that move with the soul of the azure sea,
Where Calypso sits nestling the locket of the man she will lose tonight,
All of creation moves with her sobs in perfect harmony.
In the vistas of far reaching coconut trees,
The wind rushes to and fro,
Concocting a strange chilling melody,
A song that the seagulls forgot; that now only the ancient spirits know.
These notes that precede and proclaim the farewell that is to come,
Once again trapped within the confines of her paradise,
Calypso will cry once more when the man she had loved would have to go,
Deep within her aching heart without any comfort, her tears would have to suffice.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 6:17 AM UTC
**November 5, 2010 at 2:59 am
{Inspired by Dr. Boshra 3agban, Nizzar Qabani}
You're a woman;
created from the Greek myths,
wrapped in the veil of my fantasies,
Reborn from all the phoenix ashes,
You're the history of my life, miss;
it bounds u not..no years no seas,
you grant the moon those glaring flashes,
So I never sleep at nights to see thy gypsy eyes,
It's enough to write your name,
Just to be the perfect poet,
It's enough to be loved by thee,
It is so enough for me,
& I'll be mentioned in the history;
As the man & the angel that met,
At the horizon's end,
On the edge of the dreams,
You're a woman;
Carved by an angel's hands,
& made from the diamonds of verse,
Veiled in the golden cloak of my dreams,
A deity from some mystic lands,
Glowing through my murky universe,
Born from heaven's springs & streams,
Your tidal dormant waves through me they arise,
You're a woman;
Greater than Aphrodite & Athena,
You're the endless music of the lyre of pan,
You're the gauzy clouds that may make spring a winter eve,
Picturing you ..Tottering...is the ****** of me,
Thy swift stalk...gazing at you; forever I span,
arrayed in thy mantle of every hyacinth's leaf,
That sings the odes of love in me heart they incise,
You're a woman;
Caring not for time or years,
Neither aging nor death can touch thee,
You're the eternal rose of all the nerieds,
Knowing not no pains or fears,
Thy treads' rhythm lurks through me,
Your love's a religion, belief & a creed,
& my prayers from now forth art thy drowsy sighs,
It's enough to write your name,
Just to be the perfect poet,
It's enough to be loved by thee,
It is so enough for me,
& I'll be mentioned in the history;
As the man & the angel that met,
At the horizon's end,
On the edge of the dreams,
You're a woman;
Drest in the Elysium stars,
With pinions of an angel of life,
Fretting on waters of rivers of Eden,
Healing my feeble searing scars,
Heaping my ardent fires that thrive,
With dewy kisses That're unforgotten,
I've never lived before...now I realize,
You're a woman;
Of wavy hair & wavy weather,
Of blushy cheeks, like of the primrose,
Nestling these lips gushing with love,
I pledge my heart & soul for a feather,
Of thy wing that flips & shows,
Sublimity with that dimpled smile of a dove,
That holds all the answers & whys...
It's enough to write your name,
Just to be the perfect poet,
It's enough to be loved by thee,
It is so enough for me,
& I'll be mentioned in the history;
As the man & the angel that met,
At the horizon's end,
On the edge of the dreams....
******
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
August is a time for remorse.
A time for memories,
swelling up and distorting one's vision.
The ripeness of summer has withered
under the harsh July heat,
leaving behind a shriveled skeleton of time.
August is a time of love.
Emotions that have been accumulating through June,
subtly burst through the seams,
oblivious to the Goodbyes,
lurking right beyond the bend.
August is a time of forgotten promises,
of the misled see you later,
so often mumbled from lover's lips.
The scent of leaving lingers in the air,
creating a bitter aftertaste,
mixed with the flavor of devotion.
For, forever doesn't mix well with farewell.
August is a time of silence.
A time where a single word might betray a hidden feeling,
that is swelling up beyond the bend of casual conversation.
August is a time of noise.
Where "I love you" and "see you soon",
drown out the static of reality.
Where loneliness is judged by the tangible,
and everyone is afraid of being left.
August is a time of leaving.
Minutes become muddled with sentiment, moving like molasses,
dripping slowly into the oncoming hour,
overflowing with empty formalities.
August has no tolerance for long goodbyes;
which fester like an open wound in the middle of the day.
No, August is parting in silence,
with one's final words uttered in the darkness,
the moon and stars as the only witnesses.
August is a time of closure,
not the type seen in movies,
full of mundane routines.
Accompanied by tears and terse observations,
"Your coat appears worn thin, my dear".
August is the closure that comes in the middle of the night,
when it is least expected.
It is neither welcomed,
nor is it pushed aside.
It comes as easily as sleep,
nestling into the deepest corners of one's soul.
Sometimes August isn't recognized,
until December.
After it has faded into the hazy realm,
which all past months inhabit.
Its only legacy is etched upon our souls,
haunting our every thought,
in the most lovely way:
August is a time of growing up,
of forgotten forever's,
full of the sweetest intent.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC
The sun was young and bright,
Nestling elegantly on my face.
Filling me with new hopes,
Melting all the cold within.
The aroma of coffee,
Wafting pleasantly in the air,
Complementing beautifully to the croissant,
Filling up my lonely stomach.
The day is auspicious and inspirational,
Leaving all the sorrow behind,
Walking with a new hope,
Forward and further
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 6:12 AM UTC
The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again."
Mathilde Blind. 4/7/2016. ☔
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
Ever again to breathe pure happiness,
So happy that we gave away our toy?
We smiled at nothings, needing no caress?
Have we not laughed too often since with Joy?
Have we not stolen too strange and sorrowful wrongs
For her hands' pardoning? The sun may cleanse,
And time, and starlight. Life will sing great songs,
And gods will show us pleasures more than men's.
Yet heaven looks smaller than the old doll's-home,
No nestling place is left in bluebell bloom,
And the wide arms of trees have lost their scope.
The former happiness is unreturning:
Boys' griefs are not so grievous as our yearning,
Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.
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Nightingale dances to a union jack's tune
Blonded and bonded to the winter wind's croon
Black leather lost, soul-searching for safe havens
Soothing the streetlight as she serenades,
Healing the moonlight as her honeymoon fades.
In flocks, it is said,
That safety will travel
And numbers protect those that fly,
But the heart, indeed, is a lonely hunter
So land your weary arms in mine.
You can return with the swallows to Capistrano
Or follow the flamingos as they swoon and sail
You can hang onto a hummingbird's heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.
It's the lark, that's true,
That sent me to you -
Nursing the daylight until it flutters then soars,
Nestling the twilight by the hospital doors.
In the dark, it is said
That the truth hangs lower,
And slower move the birds in time
So un-tether from your trembling sadness,
And land your weary arms in mine.
You can sing the songbird's symphony
Or fleece the feathers off a sparrows tail
You can hang onto a hummingbird's heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
We will leave you in the midst
of a poetic truce, as you spill
experiences into our open palms.
Writing to make sense of what
has happened, nestling your
deepest secrets in our fingertips.
Our roots so deep in our poetry,
if you tried to unearth us, we would
shriek louder than banshee's.
Unravel our words, enter the
labyrinth of our minds, there are
sunsets in our stomachs, and
December runs through our veins.
We are the stars to your blank skies,
the pause between each ragged breath,
the tragedy suffocating the air.
We are the pause before the applause,
we are rarity's like Haley's comet,
making you scramble for a telescope.
Only crows writhing with broken
necks are more twisted than the life
stories resting under our tongues.
We are poets, engraved in history,
fluent in all that is artistic and worldly.
Poetry is a warm blanket we remain
hidden in on a cold winter morning.
Reality is a cold floor that our
bare feet are too scared to touch.
By Rapunzel and JannaLee Perry
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
The Hummingbird
The golden egg, an Owl put
In the nest of nerd,
Out of which came then
The Hummingbird.
A gemmy nestling saw nerd,
the sooty Raven
He was terribly shocked and
in grief driven.
Aware Peahen asked Raven
Eyes aren wet?
Seethingly he answered her
The little I hate.
The restless little flatters,
As a bee unstable
And hovers above flowers
Which do wobble.
Belated Peahen took Raven
To Peacock White.
The incident she explained,
And story did recite.
Let my wisdom penetrate,
In thy empty brain,
Love begets love; hate hate
Said Whitish sane.
Take care of her, no her liberty,
The little be free.
Wish she pearches on loyalty;
A branch of Tree.
S. Bharat
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 1:03 AM UTC
emotions scattered on a page;
manipulating letters to form
feelings.
in a world with so much to give,
all I could offer were words.
a beautiful soul like yours
deserves endless compassion.
love is honest.
love is kind.
love is patient.
love is everything I am not.
you've crept and crawled
into the deepest cavity
of my heart.
a baby bird nestled in
the comfort of their home.
words that flow like
freshwater down a stream
are all I could offer.
as I tried to be
the mama bird nestling
and caring, I realized I'd
only let you down.
many nights I lay awake,
with the trials and tribulations
fencing in my head.
you saw a beauty in me
I had lost sight of myself.
I saw a beauty in you
You never realized existed.
you are flawless.
a beautiful swan
resting and gliding
upon crystal clear water
that is life.
in every such way
you represent perfection.
a masterpiece discovered
by an unknown artist who is me.
you are fire;
sparks sparkling and
embers flashing.
mesmerizing every
gazer who glimpses.
you are marvelous and
you are radiant.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see.
The sunbeams scarce ****** me with a smile,
So thick the leafy armies gather round;
And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.
Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,
Perks up its head the hiding grass between.—
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
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1
The surging water threw strange shapes,
Waiting crows with stabbing beaks
In the sky and in the drowned souls,
Festering in the swell.
The huge irrepressible waves
Spread wings flattening houses with a single downward swipe.
It was a sudden death,
They died screaming-avidly watched by millions nestling before TV sets
Unmoved if sympathetic.
They had watched enough CGI
Not to be bothered by such drama.
2.
The girl quietly combed her hair,
Bitter black in the lamplight,
Watching the snarling fox shoot from its lair
Slathering with fright.
As she lifted her arm again
The salt spray struck her, flattening her face
The wave soothed where her smile had been
Her limbs acquiring a greater grace.
It ****** in cars and houses, gulping down
The unresistant landscape with unforgiving speed,
Turning the living green into regurgitated brown
Digesting the landscape with ******** greed
It drew her little body back into the equalising sea
Just another bit of debris.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
Tears.
Salt water
mixed with fire
from my core ,this molten
center; Where viscosity erupts into
the cavernous third chamber, sufussive.
Hands. Feel across the valleyed surface, touching
the unhealed; A perfectly clean circle sitting upon solar plexus;
Cupid’s sharpest hit. Unseen. The fissure runs deep into a chamber
nestling betwixt red pulsing atrium. Only I sense the tremors here.No beats sing
out in this vast ethereal emptiness. Silent. Vaulted edifices shining bright with colourful
minerals. Molten. Lovers leaving stains upon the walls, as pure deposits cool. Crystallizing
in the aftermath of each eruption, my volcanic heartrock shines like a diamond in the rough.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
It is dark and cramped and this room
But it is private and serene to me.
Beneath my feet the water rushes up and down, up and down
The smell of salt washing the air and calming my nerves
He would tell me this is exactly right, not to worry
The smell of salt wrapping around my shaking legs,
He would understand the way it holds me. The way he does.
The smell of salt holding my trembling hands
He caresses my fingers, plants soft and sweet kisses on them; just like this.
The smell of salt nestling in my windswept hair
He likes the smell of the ocean, he won’t mind it
The smell of salt soothing my brain with its marine tendrils of happiness, of bliss
He is a man of the sea, he’ll know why his bride came here to collect her thoughts
The ship rocks, lurches, rocks
This is nothing compared to the storms I have weathered for him
But no bride truly wants bad weather on her day
At least, no bride whose heart and future is bobbing on the sea.
The smell of salt wraps an arm around my shoulders
He is the one who gave me the words for this feeling.
The smell of salt sweeps my dress around, blowing it all over the place
He would smile if he saw this.
And the smell of salt reminds of those words spoken, years ago,
And the smell of salt tells me who I am:
“Isabella, you are my perfect bride,”
Of course, his hair had oozed the aroma of sea salt as he held me that night
My sweet sailor, always wearing sea salt
And Isabella, his perfect bride.
And the smell of sea salt, ever a guiding light.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC