Long on the wave reflected lustres play

The perfection of wisdom, and the end of true philosophy is to proportion our wants to our possessions, our ambitions to our capacities, we will then be a happy and a virtuous people.

~ Mark Twain

The Last Quarter

A picturesque tableau lie before me
- a ball of fire submerged into the sea.
Orange hue emanate from the view,
the once-blue sky has been colored anew.

The ball's bottom hiding,
the top float on water, gliding.
Like a skater with graceful skims,
with gentle breeze,
lithesome laps to the water it brings.

Seagulls soar high,
back to the North they fly.
Silhouettes form against the burning backdrop,
a view of endurance in their wings that ceaselessly flap.

As the clock strikes further,
the sky grows darker.
Inch by inch, the fireball's sink go deeper.
Until finally, it has found its rest,
in the depths of the sea it has gone back to its nest.

Flames extinguished;
sky's orange color diminished.
Seagulls gone.
To orange from blue it began,
now black in the sky has run.

But the memoir of the picturesque tableau
would remain
in the memory of the Earth
it would retain.
Tomorrow, it would recur,
in the world's clock it would never blur.

In the dawn of the day's end
- the last quarter.

Long on the wave reflected lustres play

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

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