Well written… Nice

Tides and Turning

The old rooster crowed each day
From as far back as he could remember.
He ruffled his feathers and gave his cry
Without fail from January to December.

But now he was old and could barely crow,
Knowing that he was near death.
With his head bowed,
fighting for breath,

He lamented,

‘It is too bad I must die,
Though I cannot stall it.
For the sun will not rise
If I am not here to call it.

‘I mourn for the world that must live in the dark
Without the sun whom I wake.
Not a coo from a dove or a cry from a lark
will ever take my crow’s place.’

Then came his last breath of air,
As he lay there and die.
And confirmed was his fear,
For the sun did not rise,

At least for him.

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