Hym To Night

I bear the griefs of time. I feel the scars of breath and lean upon my cane, bent by the heavy years. A small wound, freshly hacked as in the twisted trunk of some old olive tree by a clean, kindly blade — a clean, kind blade of words that sang upon the breeze — has drawn forth hidden sap and turned my mind in pain. But cool air bites my skin, soft sunlight through the trees, shadows on verdant lawns, and fountain's steady splash all take away the sting. O Night, you've cleansed the world! Your daily sacrament allows my living heart to love another day.