The sun does droop with epic effort;
Land alight for another day;
Slowly sways beyond hills to slumber;
Amidst encroaching gray;
Each shade of the day retires;
First bright citrus fades away;
Then complex tones of earth and blood;
On dancing meadows lay;
The disc, alight, does bid adieu;
Followed by its color guard;
Until the land grows cold and quiet;
Its contours ever darkness-scarred
A night so dark that even flame is frightened;
Into a dull monotone;
Where the Earth exhales, and slowly whispers;
The sacred mantra om;
Unspoken Politics 