Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Journal: 113.11.22

What fire I had is faded glow
my ashes are a dusted white
the furnace I was, long ago
is now a snow-draped forge's light.

Yet fire, it seems, dies slow and still
A frugal fuel will serve it well.
Fire fades, but does not die until
There are no stories left to tell.

Fire is not dead while it still burns.
Fire sleeps to dream of when it roared.
With morning fuel, the fire returns
with joy to fashioning the sword.

What fire I had is faded glow
But still I stand against the cold
For fire is wise and does not know
what separates the young, and old.

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