The sun sits in its rightful slot
From where it grants its light to all
Revealing what is as it ought
To be, and that with weary pall.
To those things lacking vibrant life
It sends out soft, caressing rays
That are nepenthe for their strife
And guides to help correct their ways.
Below, the faces one-by-one
Turn up to see what they had missed
Illumined by the light they run
Ahead, for what they always wished
Is true, the world an open book
Where treaures lie for those who look.