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â€˜Tis not a simple task to light the forest of shadows
And yet the light manages to clear the bubbling brook,
And brighten the dancing water, and traverse the hilly meadows
And radiate the thickened woods with its vivid beam.
Not satisfied with its venture through the tree-lined path,
It flourishes, and calls upon the burning morning sun
To power it with passion to penetrate light’s foe
And stretch its glowing fingers until the job is done.
What splendor it gives the ones who on it are dependent
As they open their palms of green, pleading for warmth.
How it is master of the world, lurid and yet ascendant!
The eyes of the wilderness animals greedily watch its own.
But its gaze is elsewhere, toward another beggar,
One who has shut himself away from the cold wild
So much that he has forgotten the roles of his ancestors
And with that, the role of the morning, necessary but mild.
He has severed himself from the bonds of his fellows
Who traverse the woods, oceans, and lazy clouds.
He foolishly disregards to what his existence owes,
And pens himself with millions of his own kind alone.
â€˜Tis futile! The strength of nature’s light cannot be evaded
As time passes unhindered, it finds a clever disguise
To remind us of that which we do not remember
And tear us from our own superstitions and lies.
As I wake to the sound of a chorus of happy birds
I feel the light glowing, through windows, on my face
And for a moment, an instinct of nature sparks beyond words,
And propels me as I smile and proceed with my dreary day.