🌅 Ode to the Twilight Fire
The day grows old, a weary pace, And leans into the western space. A final, deep, and golden breath, To conquer darkness before death. The sun, a sovereign on the brink, Begins its slow and measured sink.
Upon the clouds, its light is spilled, A canvas gloriously filled. From azure blue to rose and flame, The sky pronounces its true name. A fiery blush, a molten sweep, As secrets from the daylight sleep.
The upper dome is turning soft, While amber hues are held aloft. The crimson deepens, rich and vast, A memory of the morning past. It bleeds across the water's face, Reflecting back the fading grace.
The mountains wear a purple veil, Their rugged edges start to pale. The wind grows quiet, soft, and low, A hush descends upon the flow Of life and motion, sound and toil, Returning to the peaceful soil.
The shadows lengthen, stretch and creep, While city lights begin to peep. A thousand windows catch the glow, And briefly set the world aglow. Each passing moment, slow and grand, A burning ember in the land.
The orange fades to violet mist, A final, loving, gentle kiss. The star-chart waits, beyond the blue, For twilight's moment to break through. The greatest drama, played on high, Beneath the ever-watching eye.
A solitary bird takes flight, A silhouette against the light. It dips and soars, then vanishes, As daylight's final promise is Withdrawn entirely from the sight, And yields the heavens to the night.
The western rim, a darkened bar, Receives the last descending star— No, not a star, but king of day— Then shadows hold their silent sway. The peace of evening, calm and deep, While all the world prepares for sleep. The sunset's curtain, drawn at last.
