Seeing sun. . .

As the sun creeps over the hill,
Over buildings gazing in a maze
Carrying with her a basket
Of solitude
Yet amidst is multitude of faces.
Amidst is an unhappy darkness

Crimson rays of solitude scattered by bird songs.
Golden as they highlight the leaves
Trees shake, some quake and rustle with the evening breeze
Clouds lesser white than cotton make skips across and on the sky
Each and every new dusk is quite exceptional when nature wakes and speaks.