The new day stutters as you rise, light flickers.
An old movie, life is showing off itself outside your window.
In the shape of some old woman memories go through your head.
Trees are swaying as in trance, their trembling branches
worshipping tangerine sunlight. The larks, your friends,
are gone, you miss their song.
The street is shining emptiness while rain falls hard,
the branches lost their leaves already,
their dance becomes macabre.
After a coffee all seems peaceful for a bit,
and new is good you say;
the sun rose as a flower.
You could be fooled so easily, go back to bed
and lured into some other dreams
postponing what must come. Procrastinating it.
But then in unison some crows
hack down the morning silence fast.
Why stay, you can not do this anymore.
Where is it that nightingales go
when they are old, to die?
This hurts your ears, this brings you down.
And worse: you’ve seen it long before.
You know this day.
It is your last.