Fire

Sitting by the fireside...
Much too cold to go outside...
Watching the wind thrust forth and back...
Fighting the pine with a whip and a crack...

     "Pop" the fire bursts onto the hearth.
     The flame sings "crack" and "crackle" again.
     The tall smoke rises into the skies
     To be toppled by the wind.

But the fire is confined, its anger is stored
In the corner of light it supplies,
Until its anger consumes it in flame,
And thus in defiance, it dies.

But it sings in its anguish,
It longs to be free.
To those who confine it, it longs to decree
Its terrible force, its unleashed power,
The sorrow it leaves as it starts to cower.

     And I think...
Is not this the story of men?
To live, to grow stronger, to fight to the end,
And on leaving leave sorrow
That grows less each tomorrow.

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