So the blackest night is broken,
shattered by the sweeping dawn.
Purple clouds, a remnant token
of the darkness almost gone,
touch the sky like mountains solemn,
like explosions frozen still.
Up they rise, triumphant columns,
bearing down upon this hill.
Here I lie, my foes forgotten,
strewn about me like the leaves
that were from oak and ash begotten
for the earth to now receive.
Pumping from me, life flows outward
like a swollen mountain stream
when summer sunlight brings it downward,
’cross the foothills, past my dreams.
Strange how life, so vast yet finite,
places me upon this ground.
Here, awash in newborn daylight.
Here, the newfound morn abounds.