The Sun is still yellow, kinda bright too,
Though the paint is now flaky and dim;
A rather ruminating, rambunctious, braggart,
His shadow longer than the real him.
The dew of promise that he sucked,
The vapours he eagerly drew from the sea,
Some clouds they formed, but his own blaze,
Will parch them soon – too foolish to see.
And soon – though he won’t think of it,
And say: “It’s still just past the noon” –
It will be time for the final plunge,
Though perhaps recalled by the beautiful Moon