Remnants of the sweet sleep
Flew out like winged termites off its mud hole.
But, eyelids are hesitant to yield to the beckoning light
Dawn chrous on the tree outside my window,
Wrens, robins and warblers, their distinct tunes
zigzagging like the stylus plotting an unending EKG.
They sing their hearts out, rain or shine,
The best songs their tiny throats can render,
Not for an audience, but because they are born to sing..
Is this the first prayer call to the faithful,
Or the shrill Ululating screams of tribal women,
Joyously announcing a newborn to the world?
The predawn symphony heralding the day,
Gently reminds the sleepy and despondent
Sing, and sing again, your best songs are yet to come.
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