The colors are blinding as night gives way to the light in an unspoken language. Long ago perhaps, this language was spoken by all. I'd like to think that the moon spoke to the sun and the stars to the night; conversations that were whispered in soft melodic tones deep in the corners of our universe.
The morning dew colored with the sunrise, in a solemn embrace crystallized in time for all time. Its colors soft and gentle allow the morning to percolate and find its center.
This unspoken language registers still when we look to the stars in the dead of night, when we caress wet flower petals, when we look outside our window as the sun's rays reach out to us. We continuously identify with our spirit and our guiding force. Everything seems germane.
I'd like to think that the sun is longing to be embraced, its arms stretched wide across the sky, hoping to reach the moon and re-enact their dance; evangelizing its intentions.
The moon, illuminated and stoic, looks upon us with beguiling eyes, revealing our path and enhancing our deepest of emotions. Children of the moon and the sun both. We rise, we fall, we find beauty in the dark and the light; an amalgamation of our being, passionate and inquisitive.
Somewhere in the distance, starlight reaches us, a light borne from the past, speaking to us and allowing us to contemplate what we cannot understand. Starlight proliferates our sensations and our most deeply held secrets, weaving its way into our proclivities and mysteries.
It is befitting perhaps, that this unspoken language is barely recognizable anymore. As softly as in a morning's sunrise, it rises unbending, calling out to memories and long lost words in its textures and shades.
Perhaps it is only meant to be understood by some. Children of the moon and the sun.
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