Will Morning Be there

A day of sadness comes, darkening the sky.

Alone on the rooftop, I sit quietly, watching it all without a thought.

Suddenly, a bird takes flight, and with it comes the pull of childhood, those afternoons that seemed endless, the sound of running feet, the distant call of someone calling me home.

So close, yet somehow so far away, a half-forgotten song, still warm with sleep.

Do the withered leaves on the trees call out to us, to the things we keep searching for in the days we've lost?

And the leaf pressed between the pages of an old book, what language does it speak?

When I am hurt, I fall silent. I go searching for the days when my heart was light.

I ask the traveller, “Have you never seen the light again?”

But questions only bring more questions.

When the night finally ends, will morning awaken?