The sun had dreamt to wake;bright and clear.
Span the horizon, scorch plants and trees.
But the dark clouds would always hinder its rays.
Hampering its dream of shining on mountains, valleys,
Across seas and oceans.
Until dusk when it is forced to slumber,
Hoping to shine the next day.
A day came it never rise again,
"late is better than never, keep hoping
For the best”.
Grandma had said,
But hope is not a grain of sand,
Late hope now old,
Weary and worn.
Dead becomes the hope.
Late now never,
When the sun set and too weak to rise again.
