Some mornings, through lush breeze and sunlit air,
Demand to be seen through unpainted eyes,
Since wind feels freshest kissing skin that’s bare,
Suppressed by artifice and wan disguise.
What does the morning care if you’ve a spot
Or if the skin beneath your eyes is dark?
When such a day’s beginning to be wrought,
One must be open to receive the spark,
But when I try to greet the world barefaced
It looks away from my unvarnished flaws,
As if it seeks my substance to erase,
Implying that from sight I should withdraw.
But then a flicker from a treasured friend
Rekindles that with which the dark contends.