Whispers of the Dying Light
A Poet’s Reflections at Sunset on Beauty, Longing, and the Quiet Ache of Time
Whispers of the Dying Light
A Poet’s Reflections at Sunset on Beauty, Longing, and the Quiet Ache of Time
The sun was a half-sunk coin melting into the horizon, casting long strands of amber light across the hillside. Elias sat alone, knees pulled close, a weathered notebook resting on his thigh. He had come to this place every evening for the last week, chasing the exact moment when the world turned soft with gold and memory.
Today, the sky was on fire.
He didn’t write immediately. He rarely did. Words, for him, were slow visitors—like old friends who never rushed their arrival but always came bearing truth. Instead, Elias watched as the sky performed its silent symphony: oranges bleeding into reds, purples lurking at the edges. A breeze moved through the tall grass, and he imagined it as the earth’s own breath, exhaling stories from long ago.
Behind him, the world was ordinary—people cooking dinner, streetlights flickering on, the faint hum of traffic. But here, on the crest of this hill, time did not demand movement. It only asked for attention.
His fingers traced the frayed edge of a poem he had written days ago. It spoke of a bird—possibly imagined—that vanished into the sun each evening. He had written it while thinking of someone who used to sit beside him on this very hill. Someone who loved sunsets more than words.
Mara.
Her absence wasn’t sharp anymore. It had softened into something like fog—always present, rarely painful, but impossible to ignore. She had left two summers ago, chasing a life that didn’t include quiet hills or poets who wrote more than they spoke. He couldn’t blame her. He barely understood himself, let alone expected others to.
But still, when the sky began to melt, he thought of her. Every time.
The notebook flipped open with a gust of wind, landing on a blank page. Elias took it as permission. He plucked the pen from behind his ear and leaned forward, letting the feelings pour—not in verse, not yet—but in phrases, images, questions:
> “What does the light say as it dies?”
“Why do we remember people more clearly when the sky turns orange?”
“Is longing just love that has nowhere to go?”
He paused, then added:
> “You don’t speak to me anymore, but sometimes I feel you in the wind.”
That last line hung heavy on the page, heavier still in his chest.
He imagined Mara sitting beside him again, barefoot in the grass, arms around her knees, hair catching the light like wildfire. She wouldn’t say much—she rarely did—but her eyes always seemed to be listening.
"You always wrote best at sunset," she'd once said.
"Because everything beautiful looks like it’s ending," he'd replied without thinking.
She had looked at him with something between affection and fear.
Now, with the sun slipping below the hills and shadows crawling toward him, Elias understood that moment more clearly than he ever had. He had always been fascinated with the beautiful endings, not realizing that some people were looking for beginnings.
Still, there was comfort in this ritual. In the act of returning. Of watching the sun die and be reborn, as if to say: Some endings are gentle. Some are worth watching.
Elias tore the page from his notebook and let it go. The wind lifted it, carried it up briefly, then sent it tumbling down the hill. He imagined someone finding it, reading the words, wondering about the man who wrote them. Maybe they'd understand. Maybe they wouldn’t.
But he would return tomorrow. And the day after. Until the words no longer felt like echoes.
As twilight settled, Elias packed up his notebook, stood slowly, and let the hush of evening wrap around him like a coat. The sky, now bruised with indigo, seemed to nod at him in farewell.
He whispered, more to himself than anyone else, “You were right, Mara. I do write best at sunset.”
And then he walked down the hill, leaving behind only footprints—and a few scattered pages that would dance in the wind until they, too, found a place to rest.
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Verses in the Morning Light
Verses in the Morning Light A Poet’s Awakening at Sunrise — Reflections on Hope, Clarity, and the Promise of a New Day The sky was still tinged with indigo when Leona climbed the steps of the old rooftop. A hush lay over the city like a wool blanket, muffling the world before it stirred. She carried only a thermos of tea and her leather-bound notebook—frayed at the edges, swollen with ink and dreams. It had become her quiet ritual. Each morning, just before sunrise, she came to this rooftop above the bakery where the air still smelled faintly of flour and warmth. She came not for the view, though it was beautiful, nor for solitude, though it soothed her—but for the light. The first, fragile light that made everything seem possible. This morning, the horizon promised brilliance. The faintest glow kissed the tops of buildings and spilled across the clouds in streaks of lavender and gold. She smiled quietly, setting her notebook on her lap and taking a sip of tea. The warmth curled through her chest. Leona hadn’t always been a morning person. For years, she wrote in the late hours, when the world was heavy with silence and streetlights buzzed like secrets. But something had changed in her—gently, gradually, the way a river changes course without sound. After a season of grief, when her mother passed, her nights had grown restless, filled with dreams that made her eyes sting. She’d started waking before dawn, not on purpose, but because something in her needed the quiet clarity of beginning. And it was there, in the rising light, that poetry returned. At first, it came in whispers: fragments, single lines, images she didn’t understand until later. A robin on a fencepost. The smell of wet pavement. Her mother’s humming, distant but warm. Now, the words came more easily. The pain was not gone, but it had softened, like light filtering through curtains. She flipped open her notebook to a blank page and wrote: > “Today arrives like a breath held overnight— soft, trembling, full of forgiveness.” She paused, watching a flock of birds rise suddenly from a distant rooftop. The city was waking slowly: a window slid open across the street, a kettle whistled, a bus grumbled to life far below. And yet, this rooftop still felt like its own world—suspended between sleep and possibility. Leona remembered something her mother used to say, on the rare mornings they sat together sipping tea before the day began: “The sunrise doesn’t ask for applause. It just shows up, brilliant and quiet.” As a child, she hadn’t understood it. Now, it lived in her bones. She wrote another line: > “The sky does not compete with yesterday. It simply begins again.” There was comfort in that. In knowing that each morning, the sun would return without asking permission. That no matter how fractured the previous day had been, sunrise brought a fresh canvas. It didn’t erase anything, but it gave you space to keep going. Leona glanced at her hands—ink-stained, ringless, real. She had been through seasons of doubt, loneliness, and aching uncertainty. But here, wrapped in sunlight and birdsong, she felt something unfamiliar and welcome: peace. A few more lines spilled onto the page—something about light painting rooftops, about shadows retreating into alleys. She didn’t force the rhythm; it would find its shape in time. For now, it was enough to catch what the morning offered. The sun crested the horizon fully, casting gold over the bricks and glass. For a moment, the city glowed—not loud or triumphant, but with a soft kind of courage. The kind that doesn’t shout but stands tall anyway. Leona closed her notebook and leaned back, letting the warmth touch her face. This was why she came. Not just to write, but to remember. That light returns. That beginnings are real. That even in silence, life speaks. She breathed in deep. The scent of rising bread drifted from the bakery below, and somewhere, a child laughed. Leona smiled. She had poems to write, yes—but more than that, she had mornings to witness. And in each of them, she’d find pieces of herself once thought lost.
By Muhammad Saad 6 months ago in Poets
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