Another hour strikes upon the mark,

parting ways bring dark afar, only if you ask.

Prioritise what you draw, 

hark the mourning bird of morn.

Draw into dark and see ​what you set up,

but look for light of pure grace, and grace you shall have.

Is it yours to have?

There is no yours, but we share it with all,

get what’s given no more no less for.

Become light when you hold love, 

no hate shall bring a sweet fruit.

The supple grace of time stops for no call.

Step aside and let go, the bird rises with the sun true.