The city craved control,
the winds would often sing
of the toil of the people,
and often howl in frustration,
as if reflecting the anger and depression.
The skies would shower
rains so less,
would often just let the sun take over.
Only the nights came bearing,
The gift of the moon,
cool and calm
like a mother,
pacifying a child.
Pausing a while,
with a promise of a better tomorrow.
But wildly misunderstood,
as just like a mother,
the night was down to earth,
and did not pride in what it did.
Just worked it’s magic,
Day in – day out.
The nature of mornings,
was of work.
It captured energy,
and let loose the machine.
Day in - day out,
same routine.
The rut of the cities,
existed in the days
The nights were softer,
‘twas the time of the soul.
Candle lit dinners,
between lovers
and bonfires
among friends,
the dimly lit tables
of family dinners,
and the single candle
in the widows home.
The mornings had the talks,
the meetings and conferences.
The nights were the queens
of conversations amore.
The souls were bared,
vulnerability at peak,
self-questioning minds
pondered long through the nights.
Then came the dawns,
sounds wake up again,
the city comes to life.
Introspections pause.
The engine of the machine,
sparks back to life.
With the slightest ray of light,
during the dark of the morning.