what we call an end is maybe just a phase

What we call an ending
is maybe just an erased brushstroke
to make the masterpiece.
Maybe it’s just a half-read book,
or a first rain of monsoon
that erase that old footprint
so, the new one can be made.
Maybe it’s just a falling star,
or a waning crescent phase of moon,
or a half-burned candle,
or an old forgotten clock
that still ticking in pile of dirt and spider web.
Maybe it’s the ink
that complete the unfinished sentence,
or an eclipse
covering the shine of sun
for a while.

After every web is spun
The passing of joy and delight
Every ending is a venture done
Christmas over now the night
The finished game and wone
Know that with the dawning of the light
There is a new day that has begun