Weaver of sleep

​The copper sun has folded its wings, Sinking low beneath the Siaya hills, Leaving a blue-black velvet that clings To the silent trees and the window sills. ​The world is a laboratory, hushed and deep, Where the frantic day dissolves its care; The only math is the rhythm of sleep, A soft, invisible weight in the air. ​Though miles are measured in dust and stone, The night is a bridge of silver and ink; No one who dreams is ever alone, No matter how far the horizons sink. ​So let the cold wind wander the gate, For the hearth of the mind is burning bright; The best of things are the ones that wait, Tucked in the folds of a silent night.