The crimson dawn breaks through the clouded east,
And waking breezes round the casement pipe;
They blow the globes of dew from opening buds,
And steal the odors of the sleeping flowers.
The swallow calls its young ones from the eaves,
To dart above their shadows on the lake,
Till its long rollers redden in the sun,
And bend the lances of the mirrored pines.
Who knows the miracle that brings the morn?
Still in my house I linger, though the night—
The night that hides me from myself is gone.
Light robes the world, but strips me bare again.
I will not follow on the paths of day.
I know the dregs within its crystal hours;
The bearers of my cups have served me well;
I drained them, and the bearers come no more.
Rise, morning, rise, for those believing souls
Who seek completion in day’s garish light.
My casement I will close, keep shut my door,
Till day and night are only dreams to me.
Who knows the miracle that brings the morn? Mornings in our estate are actually uncannily serene. Our wide patio is enfolded by lush palms, ferns, vines – high definition tropical greenery. The swallow calls its young ones from the eaves. Only one quiet road leads into this place.
Last night I was by the old playground, rain dripping and pooling about me, everything tingling and alive in wet darkness. I felt an affinity with my surroundings, a shimmering dampness on my own cheeks. I felt the months pass about me, pondering how this once loathed place now actually feels rather like home. I’ve come a long way from London, inside, me shivering in the tiredness of a depression that has lost even the ability to fuel itself. I’m out of luck, out of answers. The bearers of my cups have served me well… and the bearers come no more.
Perhaps now I’d be a little more ready to pray. But really I’d just like to find a warm safe place and hide myself away, and not come out until I feel better. Till day and night are only dreams to me.