Dreadful,
awful hour to
be awake.
But, alas,
the sunrise makes
the blame displaced.
Rainbows streak the east;
a kindergarten art
prodigy.
Deep cherry where sky
meets civilization,
placid orange,
and dark - but
unsettlingly serene -
purple-black creation.
And the people of Here
sleep to not see beauty arise;
they are engulfed in the depths of
shadow
and are dazed by warm bed sheets.
And I watch the
colors spread like wildfire across
my fogged imagination;
6 AM really does
exist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
when you wake up every morning, thank God you'd live another day.