4 in the morning
and my quiet night
explodes in birdsong –
the restful hours
out of people’s eyes
come to an end –
a light creeps ever nearer
over the horizon
disturbing reveries –
a pair of tired eyes
observe with resignation –
an aching head
not ready for
the voices of the day
shakes slowly –
birdsong intensifies –
soon that too will dissolve
in the noise of human voices,
then mere background noise –
and my restful thinking too
disperses on the soundwaves
of a thousand words –
but still
two, maybe three
hours left to write? –

maybe –

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