For I thought all was lost, buried beneath the rubble

That all was grey, that all’s lost colour

My wings once iridescent, since blanched and forgotten

Time inched laboriously, moments dragged disdainfully

The sun sits behind a heavy cloud, constant, bleak, unmovingly

Worker ants scurry in the murky fog across the humid lifeless alley

A stranger’s shadow forms at the start of the street

Casually ambling through the deadened district

A gentle streak pierce through the heavy fog

A silent song sings beneath his feet

Raindrops dance on a crimson petal

Beards of the old willow sway in the breeze

Wings of butterflies flutter and shine

The creeping sunbeams split to form bursts of colours

The skylark sings a song of merriment

Morning comes at the break of dawn