The sun, released
     from nights encasing mosque.
     The sky shielding its eyes with the morning mist.
     The dew melting from the chill
     with the nectur of the horizen.
     The sweet colors drip 
     with the tears
     that glaze my view.
     I wipe my eyes.
      
     And the clouds are parted 
     by a sage with crystal hair and leather sandles
     standing clothed in a wisp of philosophy.
     And he reaches out,
     with a fist that spreads the prizm as it opens.
     And with a stylish twist
     he extends his fingers 
     and lunges for the sun.
     But the sun rests beyond his outstreatched aspirations
     as it settles in the sea,
     orange into blue.
     And his eyes chase its unattainable glamour.
     While behind
     tranquilities at mid-sky
     with a backdrop that illuminates its softness.
     And the sage turns
     as peace unveils its headstone
     And his dreams grow
     In wake of the moon.