A Gift Called a Day
The flowers of the field, in the dark waiting,
their god to arise, and the sky painting.
When they come alive, their colors beaming,
with the breeze swaying, and of rain dreaming.
Lightning and thunder, never is their fear,
for it brings the rain, which they hold so dear.
Yet it is the sun, and its blessed hand,
that rescues the soul, and restores the land.
Then its promise sky, that tomorrow shine,
a gift called a day, of roses and wine!
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