Sweet on the wind flies song and whisper

rain-heavy skies this night

just like you promised

On well worn paths go the firstborn sinners

who want no absolution

only to breathe in the awakening world

streaming in with mist through an open window

the curtains unfurled like sails

the garden below in bloom

and the half-dreamer standing there

hands on the windowsill

leaning way out

What do you believe, but have no evidence for?

Photo by Janko Ferlic from Pexels

5 responses to “Firstborn”

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