VII. The Ashes of Dawn

The morning rises through a veil of gray,

its embers scattered in the trembling sky.

The night has burned, yet in its slow decay

a fragile brightness teaches how to die.

Ash drifts across the fields, but sparks remain,

small constellations smoldering in air.

Each one a promise buried in the pain,

a seed of fire the darkness learned to bear.

And as the sun ascends, I see it clear:

the ashes glow with more than sorrow’s hue.

They shape the light, and make its brilliance near,

a radiance the shadow always knew.

So dawn arrives, both mournful and reborn:

its crown is ash, its garment woven morn.