Personal poem

Tomorrow wakes on roofs of blue,
where quiet panels drink the sun,
and every golden ray becomes
a light for everyone.

Across the hills, the windmills turn
like dancers dressed in white;
they gather songs from open skies
and carry them through night.

The rivers hum through patient stones,
the tides breathe in and out,
while gardens climb old city walls
where smoke once wandered out.

Children race beneath clean clouds,
their bright kites flying high;
no shadow stains the summer fields,
no ash obscures the sky.

And hand in hand, we learn at last…