Good Morning

It could be the annoying ring of your alarm That divorces you and your beddings in the morning Possibly it’s the first two streaks of sun rays, Or the piercing cold touch of the morning breeze Or maybe it’s the voice of your nagging wife Screaming down the hall at the pretentious littluns This way or that, smiling of groaning You probably get up in the morning Am not really sure whether you rise with the sun Or wait for the Morning Prayer bells to resound Could be the irresistible breakfast aroma sailing in from the kitchen For this reason or that, consciously or instinctively . . . . . . you wouldn’t want to miss the songs of the little blue birds The last twinkle of the morning stars The fading smile of the crescent moon The fresh green sparkle of the morning dew on newborn leafs And the annoyingly sweet touch of the enthusiastic morning sun.