a blank sky smudged with thumbprints of pink
where the sun has yet to find its home,
high and omnipotent in the morning sky
even trees stand still in patient penance,
thinking "how long is this night?"
and resting on their feet, weary from day, weary from night
a time yet dark; sleepy, grieving for the setting of the moon
and prayerful eyes are open in dim rememberances of sleep
as the pink and solitary horizon rises to beg the questions of the day
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