life
each day becomes a new beginning as if the world started anew.
there is a promise and a hope as if each new day were to be the birth of a new life, the darkness changing into a hesitant attempt of light, until the sun, in all its glory, comes to the rescue of the birth of daylight.
days
the real splendour of things is beyond words, and whenever one witnesses a sunrise one should humble oneself to one's own dimension under the inexorability of all things sublime.
such is the order of things, though we cannot grasp it under our human hands, but perhaps, just perhaps we may be able to sense the divine language of the universe...
the city starts to wake from its silence, birds sense the imminence of light, and I just make a fallible attempt to understand more than the routine of days and nights, looking inside me for the city that I love, where men and women dream different hopes, some of which may perhaps come true.
will they be content? how long will the novelty of contentment stay before its demise and a new one sets the stage for more dreams and suffering?
a poet wrote that dreaming makes the world turn. I wonder...