Photo Courtesy of Alex Quispe Maguina
By five o’clock the day is tired,
after a whole summer of daylight going wild,
By November, the sun’s brightness only goes mild,
By five the sun yearns to rest,
As little birds go back to their nest.
Purple proclaims the sky, wide and unfilled,
while the sun slips gently within the clouds.
Though silent, you hear its yawn out loud.
And though it’s sorrowful to see the light leave,
It gifts a final wonderful sight to see,
at five.
