Morning is a pile of ashes, half dreams remain, not to trouble
but usher in the dawn.
sleep that ever evasive friend
runs away to new pastures to count his black sheep.
mumbling my daily prayers, not to God you understand,
believers may but then....
happy to be alive grateful like all survivors.
we are all condemned men, our tragedy is to know
but that way lies madness.
Imagining the vastness of space cudgels my brain;
those far distant places steeped in universal coldness.
forever expanding spinning revolutions.
messages from long extinct stars their light taking eons to reach
us, are now but dimmed rocks yet they warm us in their afterglow,
like the words of long dead poets.
so saying my morning prayers, glad to be alive,
lighting another candle, adding to my days,
and wonder why worthier men have died.
so saying my morning prayers, glad to be alive, lighting another candle, adding to my days, and wonder why worthier men have died. all wonder....... every morning is a gift that God is not yet tired of me........ thank u dear poet for your wisdom. tony
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
this is quite good and I can relate to it. I like the imagery, it fits the narration well. Somber but meaningful. Nice work. tfs