Caricamento in corso...

Trumpets of the Morn

Booming silence at the gates
of the hidden castle aloft,
silent trumpets in the eastern skies,
florid rays streaming from the bells,
from a pot of gold
beneath the shadows,
rose colored sounds
aimed at the earth,
slicing through the clouds
with their flailing machetes,
trumpeters sounding the grand
arrival of the sun that
squeezes through the
the perforated clouds,
walking upon the red carpet,
casting its beauty upon the earth
into the painter’s dream
or the poet’s inspiration
with a humble flaunting
of the flamboyant rays,
a masterpiece from the
hands of our mother,
our matriarch of the kingdom,
wizard of the motion of the skies
who walked the earth when the
spirit moved across the waters,
whose aging defies the
passage of time,
whose beauty lingers in the eyes
even after the sun splashes
into the nightly waters
only to start up
again the morning after
when the trumpeters sound
the arrival of the sun again.

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