The Walker Of The Dawn Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

He, (pardon, ladies, she, perhaps?)
With backpack swung with shoulder-straps
Of deep vermillion, buckled belt,
And baseball cap, bent on advent
To reach the dawn's outre extremes
Walks on as being lost in dreams.

Utopian dreams to seize the dawn
Until is on awakening morn!
How stop the sun to steep the world
And dawn ephemeral to hold?
What can a man of weakness do
To dawn's evanescence undo?

The walker, none afraid, persists
To seize the thing that can't desist.
Auroral heights engulf the wight,
A-washing with its rising bright.
The eyes iridescent with glide
Of wantonly angelic light.

Now all environs are in paint
Of pink, so eerily quaint,
So tender, smooth, yet, cutting edge
On slope, hilltop, shelf and ledge.
Now colours climbing lower, beneath
Now touching crown, stalk and leaf.

The walker, arms in air, cries:
I wish the sun would never rise
To lit my fey, phantasmal world,
Of sleepy dell, canyon and wold,
With fingertipsof gentle dawn,
With morn about to be born!

The walker, mind! Without sun
There would be nullity and none!
No dawn, no light, no warmth, no life, -
Since sun's true breeder, makes all rife!
Since sun as aftermath of dawn
Can power vital stir and churn!

The walker plunges in the dawn
This time of genuine glory shorn,
Immersed in hope of last touch
Of dawn's thin fingers' final clutch.
Ay, such illusions' grip and hold
Perhaps, still roll our racy world!