Dawn breaks.
The sand-grain sun peeks over silhouettes,
toothy shadows cut from the horizon.
Now a splinter, now a sliver, it grows
rapidly to a half-hidden disk of gold.
First light races over the twilit skies,
crashing 'gainst the far side, spilling over.
Rocs flex sleep-drawn wings, rustling feathers
as they watch a basin filling with light.

Dawn breaks.
The Great Flame simmers under glass-topped skies,
a flick'ring witness to streets made silent.
Vessels lay spent along the earthen floor,
liquors lost to passions the night before.
Now, though, the city slumbers, revelries
only in wine-hazed dreams of dracnari.
A lonely wyvern kicks up dunes of sand,
watching their clouds drift on butterfly wings.

Dawn breaks.
Chiming bells peal against the rosy sky,
heralding birth of a day yet unmarred.
Fountains gurgle to life, quiet patters
unnoticed on the vacant marble paths.
Soon the city stirs with muffled footsteps,
an echo of one thousand promises.
Above all the Effervescent Pool waits,
swirling still with a midnight starry glow.

Dawn breaks.
The Children of Elfenehoala
rise and sing welcome to a virgin sun.
Sylvan whispers glide through emerald trees,
no louder than stirring of summer breeze.
The Silvery Tree, vibrating with life,
stretches her leaves towards a blossoming sky.
Already the forest buzzes with sound,
for quick harvested are morning's blessings.

Dawn breaks.
The shadows seethe throughout the southern wood,
writhing, protesting their return to form.
Twisted creatures settle in wyrden nests,
finding restless dreams to wait out the day.
Where for many first light is beginning,
here the coming of the sun marks repose.
He Who Was Raven watches from His Tree,
its ancient branches creaking in protest.

Dawn breaks.
Sunbeams pierce the crystal spires,
sending shafts of colour a world away.
Already labourers assume their posts,
the Collective keeping a watchful eye.
Even in the Over City few sleep,
eager to continue their own great works.
The generators keep their ceaseless thrum,
for time matters little to the machine.

Dawn breaks.
A filtered haze creeps through the tainted smog,
marking the coming of another day.
The time-weathered Megalith steeps in heat,
its cracks jagged profiles in the dim.
The Great Engine begins to turn again,
even the smallest cog knowing its place.
Yet, the warmth of coming sun is lost here,
for cogs remain loyal even through death.

Dawn breaks.
Somewhere outside time, in space between space,
a beam clatters as thread slips into place.
Another moment, another shudder,
here echoes only a steady rhythm.
Before the Great Loom, a withered woman
works the weft, her face straining from effort.
Pausing, a brief smile crosses her lips,
and moments pass as dawn breaks into day.