by H. Farca

Created on: March 13, 2010

At dusk the meadow moon awaits, 

White stars they freeze in heavens gates, 

I ask, is God cold from the fates?

Push wind gallops on wicked leaves, 

Black bats whip their slicked sleeves, 

I ask, is God dirty from the grieves?

Big cats swift through reaping rye,

Yellow gaze the owls cry.

I ask, is God blind from the dry?

Dawn light is on the rise,

Winter chills  now do disguise

I ask, is God lost from the lies?

Now Spring Sunshine goes in the heart,

Its warmth striking like a dart,

I ask, is God behold depart?  

Or is he here now?

Yes my child he is here,

God is here. 

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