Smoke slithered skyward, a silent silver hymn,
Like snakes of sorrow where the light grew dim.
My body, bruised, crept low through war’s refrain,
Yet my heart rang loud in the hush of pain.
The grass, like velvet, welcomed weary skin,
As pines above swayed slow in sacred spin.
The heavens stretched — a canvas washed in gold,
A breathless scene too wondrous to be told.
The Sun emerged, a monarch on his throne,
Scattering sapphires where the wind had blown.
Each blade of grass wore jewels like a bride,
With dewdrops dancing, star-like, side by side.
“Steal them!” stirred the mischief in my chest —
But peace, not plunder, filled my soul with rest.
The fields lay still, like hearts in silent prayer,
The world — a whisper held in morning air.
A single drop, like love, fell on my face,
A gentle kiss, the sky's forgiving grace.
The breeze began to hum a nameless tune,
The clouds gave way, and rain became a boon.
Each dewdrop held the story of the land,
A mirror forged by time and nature’s hand.
They gleamed like thoughts too deep for voice or ink,
Then vanished softly at the eyelid’s blink.
I closed my eyes — not sleep, but soul’s retreat,
Wrapped in the warmth of dawn’s unfolding beat.
Even as darkness tried to claim the day,
The dew kept shining — soft, and sure, and gray.
And I, though broken, found my burden gone —
Bathed in the beauty of the dewy dawn.
This poem is a quiet testament to resilience found in the softest places — a battlefield of sorrow softened by the healing touch of dawn. In its verses, smoke and bruises yield to grass and dew, reminding us that even amid ruin, nature hums her hymns of renewal. May these lines meet you like a drop of morning rain — fleeting yet enough to cleanse a wound unseen.
