Through the mist of a winter's morn 
Rise the outlines of a struggling day, 
As the distant light from the east 
Slowly makes its arduous way.
 
Would the sun have its usual say, or, 
The clouds decide the fate of day?
Who knows now if the dark would lift, 
And the clouds their holding position shift.
 
In the bleakness of this weary setting 
For a little brightness I desperately look,
All round and everywhere
For those happy phases of life's book.
 
Does silver know which clouds to line
And which to leave alone?
Why are some roads paved with gold
And some with cobbled stone?
 
Tell me, Master, tell me now, 
Is there a why, is there a how?

(The author is a prolific poet who has over 30 poetry books to his credit. He can be reached at ashoksawhny06@gmail.com/ www.ashoksawhny.com)