Dawn is that light
as familiar as a mother's face,
fresh each morn
like a fire newly struck...
Back past the past,
we imagined gods who
set the wheel of day
on its path across the skies.
In its course, dawn
has survived the death of the
higher powers which
bore it within their chariots.
What strange things
will the new day's light cast
in days past even
the last day of our own futures?
And what will they
imagine then, that we did not
recognize the song
played by the new light morning?
