Wake Up

Wake up from the night

The slumber in its fold,

Hibernation, broken

 

The sound is produced

in the soft rustling of the leaves

in the mighty pealing of the bells

in the fading voice from afar

in the crying of a baby

Alas, the ears rejoice to hear.

 

The sight is overjoyed

in the continuous lines that criss-cross

in the random clouds that crawl

in the unexpected patterns that surprise

in the mind-boggling puzzle pieced together

Lo, the eyes learn to see.

 

The smell gladdens at the scent

of the amorphous vapor from the steam

of the appetising steam from the pot

of the gentle breeze of the morning dew

of the natural pigments of the paint

Alas, the nose gets delighted to smell.

 

The texture is encountered

in the conspicuous roughness of the rocks

in the unchallenged drapery of the cloth

in the dimensional corrugation of papers

in the slippery water that flows through

Lo, the hands celebrate to touch.

 

The mouth opens

as the stuttering tumbles out words

as the master orator fumes out his speech

as the avid reader tells a story or two

as the romantic poet reads his lines.

Alas, the mouth expresses itself.

 

Wake up from the night

As the senses get awake

There is something to say,

There is something to write.

Always, the sharpened senses

signal a message

And gives it on a silver platter.

 

Wake up

 

~

Written on 4 January 2015 in Rome

Photo by Quangpraha from Pixabay

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