100 Reflections Of Dawn (2) Poem by Bernhard Emil Bruhnke III

Night, my old friend,
why are you hiding?

Are you not being forgiven for leaving?
I did not know that stars could carry stones.

You do not need to bow as the new world takes the lead.

Night, my dear executioner,
It is strange to see you grow so pale.
It is never easy to see your weary soul
snake to the beds of our memory.

I must admit there is so much more
we could have done.
None of us are so easily replaced,
mooring over the wastebaskets,
counting the fragrance of mud.

One day your presence will be our
periphery.
A moth-eaten dream.