The night was cold, long, and deep,
and my lamp had almost run out.
Stumbling in the dark I began to weep,
no one to hear me cry, no one to hear me shout.
The night is darkest before the dawn,
and silent, and deadly, and overwhelming.
The sweetest springs follow winters long,
even those that can seem never-ending.
The question is not if the night will end -
only a matter of time before the Sun has its day -
but if I will last to see and spend
a few moments in that glorious display.
The distant clouds start blushing red,
the first to spot an approaching star.
The world wakes, shakes its sleepy head,
I am sighted again, and I see very far.
But as I look, I can find no cause for despair.
What was I afraid of? Where has it all gone?
What I felt in the night clearly isn’t there.
I made it, and now I stand welcoming the dawn.