The night needs a sun,
For that lonely dawn with its chilled hands, For you, for me, for dreams, For those endless blue skies...
The night needs a sun,
And for the tomorrows all green of the spring we thirst for...
A sun must hold the hands of those fresh boughs and shoots...
All fears must yellow and wither upon the chests of our trees...
The night needs a sun, At dusk, for your beautiful face...
Your face should glow like a magic stone of crimson glass,
Reminding you, perhaps, that you came from a falling star...
The night needs a sun,
For friend and foe,
for the street we share, and beyond.
The day should strike our faces like a stage light, And fall upon that woman in the audience—already eating her warm bread from the oven, unaware...
The night needs a sun,
For every act of faith; for that sacred, wise flower-seller...
For the seagull on the opposite roof whose chick is cold,
For that orphaned poem or piece of writing gathering dust between the pages of a book...
The night needs a sun,
For the breath, for the syllable...
For the tea that warm, pure lifeblood whose steam has woven a scarf around our necks for centuries...
The night needs a sun,
For my heavenly vineyard and garden of Cimin grapes,
For those old, cherished friends,
For the waters of Girlevik,
For the guardians awaiting my return and my time-traveling dreams,
For the houses built of peace-wood and the stone paths,
The night needs a sun,
For the trees, for the waters; To those endless, never-ending roads...
And even, Even to that golden city atop the hill...
The night needs a sun,
For you, for me...
And for love...
09.08: raisins and dreams forgotten in an orphanage pocket.
