What is, what is not?

He peeps, changing his hues all the while,

Washing the world in his color.
Doth color come from his glory, one could even ask,
Or are those inherent and within?

For once he does his disappearing act for the day, 
Certain shades, even man with his inventions, cannot bring forth.
Then do those colors actually exist, 
Or are they a function of the magic he brings about?

The entwining of the real and surreal,
Our limited wisdom, it cannot contain.
The magic, the mysteries. The more we learn, the further we need to seek.
And yet our sense of heightened egoistic being we cannot discard?



Furthest reaches of space we probe, 

The deepest recesses of the mind or womb not spared.
And yet the simplest of wonder does evade,
Our faculties of intelligence and understanding.

Perhaps it was this wisdom, that caused generations before us,

To bow and to praise the wonder, that is this ball of fire.

For despite deeper understanding than what we possess in current times,

The grace and the humility of those people are still sung about. 

(All pics shot in Coorg)