With eyes closed, I listened.
As you carefully weave the pattern of the morning sky for me.
With your words I imagined-
the crimson sun, the bloody sky.
The red heaven bleeding for the sun.
The stillness of the morning.
You spoke of beauty as if you understands them.
And ever so quietly you whispered,
“The red sunrise means a storm is coming, my love.
Every beauty has a curse.”