When you’re biking around at 4 a.m,

The world is lavender.

At least if you stay to the right of my house.

When you bike towards the left, 

There are yellow hues emanating from the horizon.

The horizon you just cannot see,

Because of trees, but mostly Because of this blasted civilization.

You can’t see the sun, but it’s telling you it’s alive, that it’s coming, that it’s almost here. 

When you bike down the road parallel to the street my house is in,

There is a blue and yellow sky, and the approaching daytime on your left,

And lavender to your right, with the moon still shining proudly against the purple, peeking out from behind clouds of grey.

And ahead of you, you’ll see a lone star,

Guiding you God knows where,

When all the other stars have dimmed in honor of the coming day.

The world isn’t quiet at all, neither is the noise static.

There are birds chirping, and the sound of someone sweeping, in some house, somewhere.

The world is alive and it wants you to know it.

But at 4:20 a.m, the world is willing to let you be by yourself just for a little while.

It is willing to be the background you silently marvel at the beauty of.

And that is all you need from the world in that moment.

You might think this isn’t poetry.

It’s just sentences about obvious things like the colour of the sky when the sun is starting to rise, but hasn’t risen yet.

But I dare you to go for a bike around 4 a.m on a June morning,

When it has rained the night before,

And the world is alive and it’s colours are sharp.

The moisture that everything has soaked in,

Is almost tantalising, except you’re alright because it’s just the beginning of your fast.

I dare you to experience the beauty of everything being alive and you being alone in it’s midst.

And I dare you to not call it poetry.

It’s Ramadan, so after Sehri (the pre-fast meal that we eat just before the sun can begin to rise), and after praying Fajr (first prayer of the day), lazy ol’ me went for a ride on my bicycle, and saw things more beautiful than I could ever dream.of being. This is the poem I wrote when I got back. It’s meant to be a spoken word piece though.