The night is light too long these days, and evening doesn’t last.
Mornings start too late as well and swiftly seem to pass.
If I were she who starts the sun upon her daily crest
I’d let her smile with birdsong while the frost is laid to rest.
And in the forest of my dreams when Moon refuses post,
I’d let them fly, the moths and I, with a silver stardust toast.
Let us then sing and be amazed at every wink of sky
And know it, timeless, all our time is given wings to fly.