Sunflower
Very few acknowledge that the day really begins at night, At the stroke of midnight, the wings of morning take flight, Leaving darkness behind, for the resplendence of the sun, And dejection too finally gives way, to the possibilities of
Rain It Will
All activities have ceased, but the dust refuses to settle, As if in deference to every hard-working man’s mettle, Sadly the hard work is no longer worth its own sweat, But dust is the only thing these sons of failure
Princess of Light
The deepest black always begins as the lightest gray, Yielding a little every time nights prowls around for prey, With every changing shade, you wonder if gain is really a sacrifice, Like losing a single brick, in an already crumbling
Tranquility
Soft and inquiring, like the chirping of the first bird, Slowly joined by others, yet soft, as if almost never heard, That is all I can remember about your first word, There were more important things that then occurred. At
Firdaus
Where footsteps have never yet made sound, And yet everybody is forever on moving ground, Where hands have never yet known the meaning of touch, And yet reality is the only thing completely out of touch. Where every word has