Hymn of the New Week

I

The newborn week steps softly through the gate,

With sandals woven out of dawn and dew;

No scroll of fate declares its coming state,

No star has signed what hours yet must do.

It breathes like fields untraveled after rain,

It waits like parchment eager for the quill;

Its silence sings of labor, loss, and gain—

A kingdom resting, undecided still.

 

II

Monday arises robed in iron light,

A herald stern who knocks on slumber’s door;

He lifts the banners of returning might

And bids the drifting soul to dream no more.

Yet in his gaze a hidden promise gleams:

That effort is the architect of fire,

And those who wake to wrestle with their dreams

May forge from toil the crowns they most desire.

 

III

The hours march forth in disciplined array,

Each minute armored in a ticking tone;

They do not yield, they neither pause nor stay,

They claim the throne no mortal calls his own.

But he who greets them as a welcome host,

Not slave nor foe but partner of their flight,

Shall find their passing is a gift, not ghost,

Their fleeting step a ladder made of light.

 

IV

Tuesday unfolds its scroll of tempered flame,

Less fierce than dawn, yet steady in its breath;

It does not shout ambition’s burning name,

It builds with quiet hands what conquers death.

The seeds unseen beneath persistence grow,

Their roots drink deeply from unnoticed streams;

For glory loves the ones who learn to sow

In patient fields the harvest of their dreams.

 

V

Now Wednesday stands upon the summit’s crest,

The bridge between what was and what shall be;

Half of the road lies folded in its chest,

Half waits beyond in veiled futurity.

It is the hour philosophers admire,

A balanced scale where hope and memory meet;

The mind walks calmly on a tempered wire

Suspended over doubt’s uncertain seat.

 

VI

Thursday descends with thoughtful amber eyes,

A scholar tracing meanings in the air;

It reads the hidden script of passing skies

And finds that purpose lingers written there.

It teaches that endurance is an art,

A quiet craft the restless rarely learn;

That steady hands outlast the hurried heart,

And patient lamps more faithfully will burn.

 

VII

Then Friday strides in garments trimmed with gold,

A minstrel crowned with laughter’s easy grace;

His voice is wine, his stories bright and bold,

His footsteps quicken every weary face.

He lifts the weight from shoulders long oppressed,

Unclasps the chains of duty link by link;

And weary spirits, newly loosed and blessed,

Stand taller than they ever dared to think.

 

VIII

The twilight blooms with lantern-colored song,

The streets grow wide with unappointed hours;

The night invites the wandering mind along

Through constellations built of mortal powers.

Music becomes a staircase made of air,

Each note a step ascending into peace;

And hearts discover, unaware, up there

A realm where weekday tyrannies all cease.

 

IX

Soft Saturday walks barefoot through the day,

A gentle monarch crowned with idle light;

No trumpet drives his dreaming hours away,

No edict bids his golden reign be slight.

He speaks in dialects of rest and play,

In dialects no calendar can bind;

And teaches souls long ordered to obey

The sacred independence of the mind.

 

X

The sun leans low in philosophical hue,

A painter rinsing brushes in the west;

It stains the sky with contemplative blue

And folds the earth in meditative rest.

The winds grow old with wisdom as they pass,

They murmur truths the hurried never hear;

They write slow scriptures on the bending grass

And crown the listening hour with insight clear.

 

XI

Then Sunday comes — a chapel built of light,

A sanctuary breathing gentle flame;

Its silence is a robe of spotless white,

Its hush a blessing spoken without name.

It lays a hand upon the traveler’s brow

And bids his restless thoughts grow calm and deep;

The world forgets its iron statutes now

And learns again the ancient art of sleep.

 

XII

So turns the wheel and births another dawn,

Another week with uninscribed decree;

What once was future now is present drawn

From time’s unfathomable treasury.

Take up its hours like torches newly lit,

Walk forth as one whom destiny has kissed;

For every week is fate unwritten yet—

A sealed horizon waiting to exist.

Morning mist rises

Soft light touches silent fields

Day wakes without sound.