Morning Light in Weimar

The morning still carries rain inside the clouds,

but over Weimar, the light has already begun.

My tea grows warm beside the window,

while May breathes softly through the sky.

Clouds are moving past the sunlight,

silver shapes drifting by.

An open book upon the table,

letters written long ago.

Goethe walks through fading pages,

like a voice I almost know.

And outside, all the clouds keep turning,

while quiet Weimar starts to sing.

Between the words and passing hours,

old souls still breathe in everything.

I read of love and human longing,

of candlelight and autumn rain.

And in this pale and gentle morning,

the world feels whole and calm again.

The porcelain cup between my fingers,

a distant breeze moves through the trees.

As if forgotten halls were speaking in the language of memories.

Charlotte laughs in silent chapters,

ink still dances through the years.

Every letter feels like opening

a hidden room preserved in tears.

No restless noise, no hurried voices,

only strings beneath the dawn.

Between the rainlight and the pages,

something timeless carries on.

And outside, morning keeps on drifting golden over stone and vine.

Yet the voices from those old books

still remain somehow with mine.

When the May light floods the window and the first soft rays

begin, there’s a quiet kind of beauty that the centuries still sing.