Morning at Mourning

Beneath the moon, up in the sky,
the wind is blowing, high tide;
I fear not the losing —
I am travelling with time.

Morning with light, morning with a smile,
morning of freedom, morning of cessation;
though not always morning —
sometimes a morning at the mourning of a lost one,
the mourning of what is left behind.
But this mourning is better than a morning
without oneself, lost in the darkness of last night.