Night broods heavy, dark, and still—
Its darkest, stillest hour,
When the dank, dead vapors chill
And the cold stars glow dour.
I roam the dark alone—it seems
The only being alive—
Debarred from the realm of dreams
And all the peace they give.
Hear! A solo voice dares break
From nowhere into song—
A bird’s chirp. Though soft and meek,
Through silence it rings strong.
Then other tongues warble, trill,
Emboldened, joining in,
Swelling to a chorus, fill
The dark with joyous din.
Still in utter dark, they sing
To hail the coming sun,
Though dawn’s first faint glimmering
Lies hidden, unbegun.
Simple faith of simple birds—
They trust their sun will come—
Told in song beyond all words,
Before which words fall dumb.
Featured in Issue Two of New Lyre Magazine