The night sky, a velvet cloak,
Embroidered with diamonds bright,
Each twinkling star, a whispered joke,
Of ancient fires burning light.
The moon, a pearl, a silver glow,
Casts shadows long and cool and deep,
Across the land, the world below,
Where dreams and secrets gently sleep.
And I, beneath this cosmic grace,
A tiny speck, a fleeting soul,
A part of this celestial space,
With stories yet untold.
The old oak stands, a gnarled sentinel,
With branches reaching, strong and bold,
Its leaves a tapestry of green and gold,
Whispering tales of winters cold.
Through centuries, it's watched the world,
Seen empires rise and empires fall,
The laughter of children, sweetly curled,
The echoes of a distant call.
Its roots, like threads, weave deep within,
Holding memories, secrets, and lore,
A silent witness, steadfast, and thin,
To time's unending, gentle roar.
The sky awakes, a blush of pink,
A gentle warmth begins to creep,
The night's dark veil, begins to shrink,
As golden light ascends from sleep.
The world, reborn, in hues of gold,
The birdsong fills the air with glee,
A new day dawns, a story told,
Of hope and promise, wild and free.
The sun, a king, in majesty,
His golden rays, a gentle kiss,
The world awakes, to finally see,
The beauty of a brand new bliss.