First Light

Before the generators start,
before the hawker at the corner
lifts the first bread from the first basket,
the city is an animal with its eyes closed.

A single dog crosses the road
as if it has permission.
The sky is the colour of a letter
nobody has written yet.

At this hour I love my country
the way you love a person sleeping —
with no complaint,
with no expectation,
with the quiet surprise of having been
beside her all along.

Then the first radio somewhere.
Then the second.
Then the noise comes,
and with it the day,
and with the day the forgetting.