When comes the morning dawn.

As dawn slides its purple cloack over the spires of the city, i sit in silent contemplation and think about the fields of home. Wrapped in a warm blanket of the shards of my nightly dreams I feel at ease and not ready for the world ahead. The city barely sleeps and still the silence glides trough the streets as a fleeting fogg. I close my eyes and see te morning mist wade trough the trees and over the fields of my home town… I open them and see the morning crawl through empty corridords and past standing giants. Like a harbour in the fog these great ships await their passengers only to travel trough the seas of their life, but never move an inch. I let my thoughts whisper and think of how the world would be if no one would wake up today. If the world held its morning breath and let me alone wade trough the frozen time. I could crawl up in a little ball and let the night claim me once more. I could hide in the cracks of my deepest dreams and live them as if they where real. Dawn is such a beautifull time. To quiet to be awake as ones soul screams for dreams to come again, to beautifull to sleep trough as its serenity is so beautifull. Dawn is like a snowscape , untouched. The only way to discover it is to wade trough it.. and thereby disturbing it forever. Dawn is a duality, a paradox if you want. The doorstep to a new day, the last look at a fleeting night. Dawn is the balance between the silence of ones inner soul and the adventures of the dreams that came. As time seeps trough my finger I try to cling to this quiet time. When the empty echo of the streets is reflected by my inner peace. As my soul is quiet and untouched by the troubles of the world.. I sit on a bench in the morning fogg, along the pool of my mind.. And see only the ripples of my own toughts wade over its motionless surface.

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