Threads of day and night

He blurburs with no end,
a restless tongue spinning threads of sun and shadow.
When the sun bestows its yellow beauty,
he calls it a sleep reaper,
a thief of dreams,
turning gold into a burden he cannot bear.

He moves in unending circles,
measuring the roundness of the world
as if it could answer his discontent.
He hurls the dark into chaos,
shattering evening chats with his storm of noise,
yelling at the invitation of tiredness
he refuses to accept.

Yet day and night conspire for his good,
the sun and shadows, silent guardians of his growth.
He is still a baby,
or perhaps an ungrateful spark,
blind to the rhythm of the world
that cradles him in its endless turns.

Only when the rug is missing
does he see the invisible threads:
the golden sun, the tender dark,
the steady heartbeat of time—
all for him,
all to teach him the quiet value
he once could not hear.