I'll have to give more thought to the second act, the morning Why does the morning come? Just because it is meant so? Or are we so deprived of reality in the night, So lost in the darkness, That we beg, we beg with every fiber, every feeling, every memory, to let us be a new, to let us remember how it felt, to feel again, to see, that in it's mercy, the morning shows up for us and forgives us for what was and gives tu us anew the day? Does it sense that we are lost behind the shroud? That the cleansing, in it's power, in it's purity is also our damnation? That we, children of this earth, have to live in the dirt to survive? That we can never, may never, reach a pure, and singular thought, a presence ever present, that does not wish to remember, that is and does not wish, for wishing is itself an act of calling for the future, impure?