The land was peaceful and fair,
With not a stir in the air,
New grounds sprung from the ice.
So fertile, but still holding on to the last licks of cold,
The earth reluctant to leave its new friend,
But at the same time eager to embrace its old: warmth.
The crimson sun hung high in the sky,
Like a regal noble, unreachable from all below,
And all who tried were blinded by its majesty.
The spring sea waked gently on the shore.
Its eye of torrents winked at the crimson sun,
And, much to its dismay, the sun winked back,
Casting a ruby hue onto its silent surface.
The frigid mountain rose beyond the crimson sun,
Swallowing it at twilight and dawn.
So high up, the mountain rose, that it hosted its own private nebula,
A swirl of haze and fog, reflecting the light of the sun at day,
And hording it at night.
The mountain was a spectator to all the wondrous events below,
Nothing went unseen by its infinite glance.
Of crystals of clouds, the Earth seemed that day.
-Guppin