The sun comes up on its canvas,
a canvas that we call the sky;
it’s as blue as the purest waters,
wider than a child’s eyes.
The painter glides his brush on the surface,
moving the sun to its peak;
we glisten in the heat of its fervor,
as bright as the night is bleak.
Though soon the sun strokes its way down,
eclipsed by the artist’s next page;
it’s been returned to its bed for the evening,
like the bird that flocks to her cage.
But then the moon will climb to its heights,
reminding us that the sun still shines;
the face of the crescent is smiling,
“Sweet dreams, dear child of mine.”
In the morning I’ll paint a new day,
and the sun will rise like before;
so sleep tight, my child, my beloved,
and trust you’ll awake once more.