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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