Wrapped in orange of the setting sun,
The sky pondered about its hues,
Yellow is always bright and new,
At times a tad harsh carrying on,
As if from a pulpit, beholding eager eyes vigilant at the pew.
The orange rather is sombre and fine,
The glow is warm, signalling time to give up and dine,
Heralding the day to take a bow
And maybe reap whatever you did sow.
The sky then thought of its gloomiest hue
Harbinger of despondence, is it true?
It engulfs and enchants with silver borders.
Pondering, it then moves on,
Leaving behind a trail of colours,
Seven beauties, hauling magic before they’re gone.