When the morning comes for me

In its arms are the whyfors

That sunlit glow of what's to be

Here lie all my what-mores

Over the cold of pain I see

Under the burn of those at wars

There is the warmth of the future free

Tomorrow is full of splendid unsures

Here among the soft bright births

Every surface yellow orange pink aflame

Soon this prospective light of the earth's

Unknown to those who hurt or maim

Now will shine only on later mirths

   I musn't have been the same