Creaking, rumbling birth pangs follow
Crumbling shrieks of anticipation.
Brightness breaks in
Warming the sleeping blind.
First steps from the tomb wombs feel familiar
Except all things are…are…new.
The trees and stones and little grains of sand
Bellow a familiar song never before heard.
Walking turns to skipping turns to dancing
As children follow the brilliant light of the city.
The newborn subjects parade their way to the King’s feast
And they have not enough worry to think about tomorrow.
This poem is very much still in progress. Other iterations can be found here.