Before your waking up the walls are clear,
without a shadow of your earthbound blight,
the windows come to light without a sound,
the room is waking still from dreamless night,
the day is yet to write its story as a spear.
I see the wind comes crushing to the peak,
the mountains are the friends in sight,
the greens - the blanket on my right,
the other colours murmur in ancient Greek.
I barely speak weak in this midweek,
while sunlights through the curtains sneak;
The white verse with incidental rhyming
falling from the trees like an early storm
smells like coffee beans and bitter liquor:
Good morrow to the soul of thee, good night to me!
