Sitting outside in a moonlit glade,
As the fireflies streak and hover.
And the stars slowly start to fade,
Out of sight in the predawn hour.
A mystical mist slowly appears,
And settles o'er the ground.
It's a time for dreams and not for fears,
All is peaceful there is no sound.
A single mockingbird starts to sing,
Way up in the live oak tree.
Welcoming the morning is his thing,
And it sounds beautiful to me.
An orange glow is in the east,
Shining through the haze.
And the night retreats like some mythic beast,
Before the suns first golden rays.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem