The womb of the morning
Is the cradle of our creation
The bed of our existence
Is hewn out of the glass of the cloud
We are the mystery planted by God
We are arrows taken from His scabbard of magic
We are the flowers hanging on the trees of time
We are the stars scattered in the dome of heaven
Flaunted on the mortal mountain for a moment
Then fade into an endless oblivion
Never fully understood
Never fully satisfied
And who we are remains entirely a puzzle forever

© Olatuja Oloyede