The Violet Hour
Where Heaven Bends to Earth
Full Gallery: https://photos.app.goo.gl/95RhTGkgbkDAD6gW7
Before the first bird dreams of song, they stir
Angels, breathing softly through the mist.
Their wings, still damp with night, confer
a shimmer to the air they kiss.
The world lies silent, hushed in deep repose,
while violet dawn through heaven’s curtain flows.
No cry, no wind, no mortal voice intrudes
only the trembling hush of birth anew.
The Angels rise from shadowed interludes,
their eyes reflecting amaranthine hue.
Through twilight’s veil they drift in slow ascent,
to crown the day the stars have just lamented.
They come in ranks of quiet, argent flame,
their halos brushed with lilac, soft and wide.
Each whispers Earth’s forgotten name,
as mountains wake and rivers open wide.
The soil itself, in awe, begins to breathe
as Angels weave the morning’s fragile wreath.
The world holds still, as though it fears to break
the sacred silence of their bright return.
The Angels move where sky and dream awake,
their passage leaving violet trails that burn.
All hearts, though sleeping, sense their tender flight,
and turn within, away from fear and night.
Now light descends through veils of fading stars,
and Angels spread their wings above the plain.
Their radiance heals the dusk’s old scars,
their mercy mingles with the dew and rain.
The darkness, humbled, bows before their grace
and yields the dawn, retreating into space.
The violet deepens, trembling on the air,
an aureole of promise, vast and mild.
Angels gather, circling unaware,
that humankind below them softly smiled.
For in that glow, the weary find release,
believing Angels guard their fragile peace.
O gentle hour, where heaven bends to earth,
and Angels lead the future into flame
your color marks the moment of rebirth,
when every soul recalls from whence it came.
Beneath their wings, the breath of morning sighs,
as hope returns to newly opened eyes.
Then, with the sun, the Angels fade from view,
their work begun, their vigil softly done.
Yet in the violet stillness, faint but true,
their promise hums beneath the rising sun.
For every dawn that breaks through night’s long shroud
declares: the Angels have returned, and we are proud.