The sun is my father,
He bleeds brightly through the trees,
He is a circle of pure colour,
Casting leafy shadows on frosted glass.
His children have put him in the sky of heaven,
With his mother repitition watching him from the earths surface,
Knowing she will meet him in one of his cycles,
When they will be together again.
Knocking on the sun,
The fist opens up a palm,
And tools once noticed by the father,
Are put to good use.