The Poetry of a Fading Sun

The Poetry of a Fading Sun

The sky turns amber like old pages of a book

whispering stories the day forgot to tell.

Shadows stretch long over tired sidewalks

as if time itself is exhaling.

There’s something sacred about this hour—

when the light softens,

when noise fades,

when the sun, knowing its time is brief,

paints its last poem across the sky.

It does not rush.

It does not cling.

It simply lowers itself,

gentle as a breath,

trusting the night to hold what it leaves behind.

We stand there, don’t we—

on porches, in cars, in quiet fields—

watching with awe

as if it's the first time

we’ve seen the sky bleed gold.

And maybe it is.

Because every goodbye,

even one we've seen before,

carries its own weight,

its own grace.

The sun teaches us this:

That beauty is not just in the rising,

but in the fading too—

in knowing when to shine

and when to surrender.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi