Darkness is fading and the sweet chirping of a tiny bird is announcing pale dawn, coolness, freshness and colours. Not that the colours are visible when the eyes are closed and most of the man is buried under blankets. Still, he waits, enjoying all the textures and variations of newness, like a happy member of an audience listening in on an orchestra as it tunes up for a much-anticipated performance. Here comes the percussion, fittingly layered in between the random song-bursts of that tiny bundle of feathers. First, a rhythmic brushing, then a dull but regular clunking of iron on fabric accompanied by a hissing of steam and finally—in soft lilted soprano—a never before heard worship song coming from the lips of the beloved who is unwittingly joining her orchestra in with that of the birds whilst preparing her hair, her clothes and her body to meet this new day.