Ask Me Not of Sunset. By Rizka Baely.

Poetry and Letters.

Do not come and ask me of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one. They came and asked: How about the greying of hair, The fall of tooth, The aching of bones, Is it not sunset? I answered them loud and clear: No, it is not sunset, Because for every strand of grey hair, Every tooth that fell, Every aching of the bones, A new wisdom will come, knocking at our door: Learn anew, it is dawn again. The next time they marched and shouted: How about the faces we forget, The names we cannot recall, The memories that fly away, Is it not sunset? So I answered them louder and clearer: No, it is not sunset. Because for every face, and name, And memory we lost, There is always a new song waiting to be sung, A new poem to be written, To honour all that have gone by. They stomped their feet and screamed: How about those departures of our beloved, Early evening slumber that feels too early, The loneliness of the soul, Is it not sunset? I smiled and answered: No, it is not sunset, For every departure will remind us To paint a worthwhile legacy, All loneliness and slumber that feels too early, Will be wiped away by a morning prayer, And by a first, small step in the dawn. Ask me not of sunset, For I have not seen one, For I have not been one.