Morning Stars

Who will fall,
Be transformed,
Be reborn,
Into the city below?

We will.

What knows,
of reds-a-swirling,
of oranges-a-twinkle?

Look out the window.
Is it
Morning stars,
Summer clouds,
Airborne sky,
Or city blues.
Marvels of grey shades,
And the blend of dull gloomy lights,
A new hue.
Longer, perhaps.
A sky among the clouds,
And us.
No mixture in the cities,
As grey and varying like it,
Until the warm day will pass,
Night down below,
A new journey.
This is the next city.
There, we descend.

We will.
I will.

Reconstructed out of Flight


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