The celestial furnace rises from
A clump of pines, the sun being released with agility
To be born.
Why are there so many ways to die
But only one way to be created?
The great birth is bloody:
The crimson of the sky
Spreading throughout the waking world.
Why are sunrises more spectacular,
Where the atmosphere has more dust and pollution,
So the color is refracted more easily?
They say we’ll never see dawn’s light.
They say we’ll be frozen in the night forever.
Well, I’ve seen twilight developing,
The unforgiving blackness giving way to navy and then to periwinkle,
The sky stronger and brighter
Till a fire explodes
Burning into us in the form of promise.
Well, to them I say, we will.
We will see the sun.
And we’ll feel the warmth on our skin.
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