Everwatchful, darkness lingers
waiting for the light
of each new day to appear.
Lazy, navy blue of night
lightens slowly
to a yellow crested morn.
Like ghosts,
the shrouded fog, it creeps
along the hedgerows
where it sleeps,
like silver winged shadows
until dawn.
A fireball, the sun,
will gently rise
tickling at the lashes
of your eyes,
until, at last
you can no longer keep
yourself
within night's realms of sleep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem