QUIETLY FOLLOWS THE MORN

How quiet the day after a storm

Time stooping to pick up pieces

decaying amongst wreckage

Lost promises floating with

shards of imagination

buried under broken rubble

waiting for excavation

How silent the hours of early sun

after a volcanic eruption 

Ash choked breath

struggling against gray mist

The canvas of destruction smudged

with red steam and mushroom clouds

Amidst screams for reparation

And yet as streams of light

peek through the ruined ramparts

the tattered curtains dissolve

wafted by winds of change

The shattered land reborn with

 spirits renewed, embraces the night

and quietly follows the morn