The sun came up the self-same way
It always had, that fateful day.
I saw no threat in pink-washed clouds;
The mists did not resemble shrouds,
Nor in the notes of friendly bird
Was there a warning to be heard.
Oh, everything was quite the same!
There was no inkling anywhere
That Fate was blowing on the flame
Of Tragedy. But–it was there.
It looked like any other day.
The sun came up–you went away.
by Ray Romine Friday, March 29, 1946
