Sol, Sol, Sol Indiges,
though nightly you concede
the world to holy darkness
Each morning you advance
once more past the horizon:
renewed and never conquered.
From your vantage point far at the apex
shadows shrink from sight
as your gaze illuminates
all that the skies cover.
You take the middle path,
though steering unruly horses,
not veering to cold distance
nor fiery closeness,
and daily you retreat
at just the proper time:
(clocks are set by you).
But each morning you advance
once more past the horizon:
renewed and never conquered.
Sol Indiges, Sol, Sol.
