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The horizon was reluctant,
To let the Sun go;
It feared the demons of darkness,
Breathing down its neck,
Prancing within viciously;
Cause the moon too,
Had asked for a respite;
The fortnight long show,
Had worn him out;
Therefore, the audience, that,
Shimmered and applauded the previous nights,
With their chums and constellations,
Preferred not to unveil themselves;
Now, it was all alone: the horizon;
The dark abyss with the deafening silence;
But there was no nothingness;
It could let out a cry,
Hitherto hidden in its layered depths,
Without being embarrassed;
It could revive that dried drop,
In its eyes,
And set it free;
It would lose,
All the hardness it faked;
And surrender to the agony,
Creeping out of its pores;
It would face its demons,
Of shame and guilt,
And the misery that inspired them;
To fight them once more;
To let its soul go;
But as this turmoil would transit,
It will find peace,
In those fleeting moments of solitude;
Then,
The Universe will spin a degree;
The darkness will dilute,
And the sky will swirl a shade lighter;
And there shall rise again,
The sun from within;
To let the world see its new color,
A Vermilion hue.
