A sunset is a prophet, each reading a day’s triumphs and tragedies, stroking them over the canvas of the skies.
When the day settles,
and sun begins to part for the night,
it is you sweetly singing I hear.
The sun melts in the sky:
a cloak of many colors from a doting father.
The meld of the sun’s fiery departure,
spun itself in all colors into Egypt.
The world, with misgivings,
painted its darkness after sunset.
But I was a king of this world,
and the chalice of my wine
could incriminate whosoever I desired:
once a prisoner, now a prophet.
From my mantle of kindness, parts theoil for his head, anointing every past hour.