She is here, the night, swathed in her garb of varying shades of purple - Byzantium, taupe, indigo, lavender, wisteria. Silhouettes of the trees can be seen, dark against the lighter, gentler background. She is peppered with stars, little pinpricks of white light, and the planets - copper for Mars, a dazzling pure white, larger than the rest, for Venus. They are mostly obscured by heavy clouds, but if you open your eyes wide, you can see them closely. Look closely, tilt your face heavenward, and you might just catch a glimpse of Jupiter and Saturn, the most majestic of them all. Tilt backwards, take it all in.
But where did the moon go? It is not seen, not even a silver of a crescent, much less the whole full-ness of it. It has vanished, gone. Gone from sight, gone from our mind. Where did the moon go?
When morning arrives, your sleepy mind possesses no recollection of the night's beauty. It is still dark out, though chillier, the sky mellowing into fainter hues. You pay it no heed - though not for long. It brightens with the tangerine rising sun, glorious, neon, bringing the promise of a new day. And with the rising sun comes the dawn, soothing chromas of baby-blue, like that of the bosom of a pigeon with daubs of pink and tiger-lily orange. They blend together in harmony, amalgamate into an unwavering skyscape.
It whisks your breath away, this rare moment of sunrise. You stop for those magical moments, where things are suspended in time, in purity of those ribbons if colour. If only it were eternal. Your eyes are not shielded as you gaze and admire, after all, who could bear to look away? The sun does not blaze, but rather, adjusts to its new surroundings like the glowing hot coal that cools. The majestic scene is held in rapture, revered in awe.
The day does dawdle, with the sun soon shining in full glory, blazing, scorching mercilessly. It hovers overhead, casting shadows long, short, then long again.
Sunset has come.
This time, the heat subsides as the sun does too. This time, the sky is painted with pinkish tinges and reddish hues, warm notes of the bittersweet ending of a day. It is the same sun that has set over the Nile as Egyptians trudged home. It is the same sun that set as the final clashes of battle were heard as Romans conquered Greece. It is the same sun that has set as your parents carried you home from the hospital years and years ago. This is the everlasting sun.
But these moments are not everlasting. They come and flee in minutes, minutes as time is suspended and drivers slow down to watch the majesty of the dimming sun. It is now the ebbing orb of orange sorbet, softly dipping down, lower, lower, lower.
Night has fallen again. And the moon is here, for it is a cloudless night. She is the sphere of reflection, she the sun's radiance, us in moony melancholy as we gaze at she who illuminates the otherwise deep, dark night.
And here, this little tale has come full circle, like the ouroboros. The cycle which has repeats itself over and over for millenniums has done so again, ever so elegantly and gently.
It has come full circle.
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