Dawn hasnt woken up the sleeping city; yet. He hovers over her, like a lover, about to wake her up, but reluctant, distracted by the splendour of her spread out, defenseless, guileless, silent, in his thirsty sight.
The sky is dark. The street lamps sweep down, casting irregular orange pools of light, swelling and ebbing like tides. The few people out, walk silently, hurrying to work; or stand silently smoking outside doorsteps, as if proud to have lived to tell, through another day. The joggers go quietly by, as if a little ashamed of their obscene cheerfulness, in the face of the adult, matter-of-fact normality, crawling the streets like dawn-ants.
The buses move swiftly through deserted roads. Like long distance athletes. stretching and warming up, before the main section of the run begings
In the half light, the old buildings tower above menacing, yet benign. Like tired giants of society men, the builders, the business men, the real men, who built the city and now weary, rest. In a corner, the dark shape of a bird of the night, sweeps suddenly down from a corniche. How many ages had he rested his immense wings?
At intervals, the swanky modern offices and malls glitter with gorgeous golden lights, each more resplendant than the next, like glamourous, exquisitely non-functional, heart stoppingly just-for-moment, stunningly beautiful, array of beauties at a society ball.
Theres a magic in the hush. In the horizon, dawn is stirring; the battle between hunger to hold the city awake, and watch her supine, atlast won. Birds and Robins bravely venture forth. Children wake up and are got ready for school. Men are fed and sent of for another day. The city wakes. A new day, begins.
Originally Posted at Prerona.
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