The morning has a secret

I want to tell you and I want you to hear:

The cycles of destruction are the yang of rebirth.
Little like emptiness to yield abundance,
as I have felt your grief and the sting of love’s cold bite;

Yet I know, as surely as the frost burns the pit of your belly,
the glow of your hearth will quickly soothe it.

Sweep away the ashes and let them ignite.
The morning has a secret in its softness
and the new sun that wakes you
will stun you perfectly.