The Weeping Sun

The sun weeps today, not in fiery rain,

but in a muted gray, a mournful stain.

It stretches long shadows, cold and stark,

painting the world in an aching dark.

The wind whispers secrets, tales of what's lost,

of laughter faded, at an unbearable cost.

Trees hold their breath, leaves heavy with tears,

reflecting the sky's melancholic fears.

A lone bird circles, its song a mournful cry,

echoing through fields where dreams used to lie.

Flowers droop their heads, petals heavy with rain,

mirroring the sorrow, a silent, shared pain.

Rivers flow slow, carrying burdens unseen,

whispering stories of what might have been.

Stones on the shore, smooth and worn by time,

hold memories etched, in a sorrowful rhyme.

The world feels empty, a hollow shell,

echoes of happiness, a forgotten spell.

The air tastes of salt, tears on the breeze,

as the sun weeps silently, beneath the weeping trees.

But even in darkness, a flicker may remain,

a spark of hope, defying sorrow's rain.

For even the sun rises, after the night,

painting the world anew, with its gentle light.

So we wait, with hearts heavy and eyes that sting,

for the sun to smile again, and hope to take wing.

For even in sadness, beauty can bloom,

a reminder that life, weathers every gloom.

And though the tears may fall, and the world may weep,

the sun will rise again, from its slumber deep.

And in its warmth, we'll find solace anew,

and start again, with hearts more tender and true.

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