The Sun

Winds from the east,

Born with the sun,

Beckon with hands

As soft as a prayer.

As if to a feast,

Our eyes turn and run

To where the sun stands

Like a god in mid-air.

 

Ablaze with a light

That sight cannot bear,

He proudly steps forth,

Majestic and free,

Traversing the heights

And the highways of air,

As men walk the earth

Or ships sail the sea.

 

The sun lifts his face,

His gaze sweeps the earth,

As sure of his power

As the scion of some

Titanic new race

By time given birth,

Or an angel whose hour

Has finally come.

 

And yet still I wonder,

Where does the sun go

When, weary at last,

He sinks from our sight

And slides slowly under

Horizons we know,

To seek out the vast,

Secret byways of night.

 

Does his fiery eye then

Look on other men’s fields?

And do they wake there

To his quickening light?

Does their day begin

While, here, evening yields

To the darkness we fear,

Our cold, comfortless night?

 

Or was that voice right

That of old used to say

A new sun each morn

Is born from the sea

And dies every night

As men die every day,

And new lives are born

Though ours cease to be.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash