A poet asked a question, nicely,
better to die in fire - or in icely?
But what about the sun or moonly?
What if they should die too soonly?
The sun and moon, up there spinning,
engaged, they are, celestial twinning,
their sizes in the sky, the saming,
ice and fire twins, freezing, flaming.
So light- so high the drifted sky,
the way it thunders to the top.
So weak- so weary across the sky
the sun's shining lust will begin to stop.
So thick- so wet across the sky
the rain will platter to single drops.
So loud- like symphony across the sky,
the trees and leaves and winds will want to hop.
So dark- so dreary- so harsh in the sky,
a lightening a bolt comes thick and dry
to the tree who stants to the fullest trunk.
So light- so high is the newly drifted sky
as the flashes soonly falls.
If noon could to talk to me so sweetly-
and if the sun could speak within its rays-
like waves in the seas (there are a secrets told)
I know the golden hue would always wish to stay.
If noon could to talk to me so sweetly-
and if the sun had a word to soonly speak
It would ask for the water to evaporate
to cool him from a fire ball to a cloudy peak.
If noon could share to me a little secret-
And if the sun had fury rage but little inside
it would speak that he is afraid of the moon-
and the colors when he falls to a sunset as they collide.
If the noon was only real- just as a friend-
Then the sun in the sky would sing a lullaby
with all the chirping vocals from the birds
and put me to sleep with all and good-bye.