Math Olympiads, and some more poems
I watched the sun go down today,
I watched the beautiful ball of flame,
on the threshold of the west,
color all the cottony white clouds,
red as flame, red as blood, as red as anger itself.
Red that turned orange as you moved eastwards,
like masses of cotton dipped in dye.
Red rays, orange rays, weaving in and out,
like two voices reciting a poem together.
The sky was a heavenly tricolor,
west, color indistinguishable over the sun,
middle, light blue, like old-fashioned china,
with wispy, translucent, ghost-like clouds,
east was velvety indigo,
dark almost to the point of oppressive,
with millions of tiny, sparkling, wondrous stars.
There was no breeze in the sky,
for this was the undecided period,
between land breeze and sea breeze.
Yet a scent floated in the air,
a scent mystic and anticipatory.
Birds bid farewell to their friends,
and went back home with beaks loaded,
with food for their children.
Humans did much the same thing.
A thousand voices floated in the air,
all of farewell, tiredness, and satisfaction.
The sun went down, and a pale ghost,
of the moon was visible in the eastern sky.
There was light in the sky, though,
the last litlle bit of light, enough, perhaps, to read.
Time passed. Seconds slithered into minutes,
minutes into hours, hours into eternity.
The sky grew darker by the second,
until the last bit of twilight was lost,
the last nit of day, of light,
and before I knew it, night had fallen,
the day had gone,
the beauty fallen into an abyss,
from which who would have dared to rescue it.
Night had fallen, day was gone,
the period of transition,
of undecidedness had passed.
A decision had been reached,
night had set in
all that we had been had been clinging to was lost.
A moment was gone, no point in trying,
to retrieve it, reclaim it, relive it.
The night breeze blew,
I closed my eyes.
I had just watched the sun go down.
What do you think?
I watched the beautiful ball of flame,
on the threshold of the west,
color all the cottony white clouds,
red as flame, red as blood, as red as anger itself.
Red that turned orange as you moved eastwards,
like masses of cotton dipped in dye.
Red rays, orange rays, weaving in and out,
like two voices reciting a poem together.
The sky was a heavenly tricolor,
west, color indistinguishable over the sun,
middle, light blue, like old-fashioned china,
with wispy, translucent, ghost-like clouds,
east was velvety indigo,
dark almost to the point of oppressive,
with millions of tiny, sparkling, wondrous stars.
There was no breeze in the sky,
for this was the undecided period,
between land breeze and sea breeze.
Yet a scent floated in the air,
a scent mystic and anticipatory.
Birds bid farewell to their friends,
and went back home with beaks loaded,
with food for their children.
Humans did much the same thing.
A thousand voices floated in the air,
all of farewell, tiredness, and satisfaction.
The sun went down, and a pale ghost,
of the moon was visible in the eastern sky.
There was light in the sky, though,
the last litlle bit of light, enough, perhaps, to read.
Time passed. Seconds slithered into minutes,
minutes into hours, hours into eternity.
The sky grew darker by the second,
until the last bit of twilight was lost,
the last nit of day, of light,
and before I knew it, night had fallen,
the day had gone,
the beauty fallen into an abyss,
from which who would have dared to rescue it.
Night had fallen, day was gone,
the period of transition,
of undecidedness had passed.
A decision had been reached,
night had set in
all that we had been had been clinging to was lost.
A moment was gone, no point in trying,
to retrieve it, reclaim it, relive it.
The night breeze blew,
I closed my eyes.
I had just watched the sun go down.
What do you think?