The hymn of matins
I intone
when I set out in the morning frost.
The pupils of my eyes lick
the morning twilight,
light up
with the matutinal sound.
A nd the mother bird
cuddles her young
in the frenzy
of the final dream …
Heavy is the duty
of the early riser
tussling with the bronze tolling
of the steeples.
Heavy is the duty
of the enthusiast
who issues out
with arms outstretched
like a patriarch
weighing
in his fists
the burden
of the eternal struggle
between
the murky darkness of night
and light.