At the end of the first Day

On the eve of the first Night
all the animals and people were there
and having only seen the light
how could they have known what night would be?

the old men
put canvas sacks over their heads
and ran around screaming about how the world would end
running into each other
trampling the feet of those who could still see

the young mothers cried out in fear for their children
the young men formed geometric defense patterns across the field
and shouted their defiance of the sky
the elder women gathered the tattered garments of the day
and began sewing the tattered sleeves of the children

in effect
it was pretty much like today

on the first Night
the horizon became a crack in the world
where the crimson Sun slipped away
pouring the last of its golden blood upon the land
upon those who stood in fear
upon those who stood in anger

and upon the few
the very few who opened their hands
dropping their tools and weapons
the few who tried to hold no preconceived notion
about the on-coming ocean of night

on that day time was not held
no one put their hand to the sky to stop the end of Day
stop the beginning of Night

the cosmic wheel turned
and all color was bled from the land

but the few with open hands regarded the heavens
and Wonder upon Wonder
the first tiny voices of light
the first chorus of Stars
grew in the deepening velvet darkness

and those few who looked without prejudice
those few thus enamored
knew no fear of the Night

balance in all things
in the service of the Muse

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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