What a moment ago was resting and grounded is now lit;
It paints sparks and rumbles glowingly
to show coins of silver under roots, and behind rocks.
Doused, the dim fog returns, but not peace.
Why could I not stay rigid and ruled?
My arguments turn to ash, and I want to crawl and scrape the dirt for treasure
I would like to give away the remnant sticks and cinders,
for someone else's fire
to who can create iron from their passion
Mine is a cool flame, reaching and straining to own the inky night sky.
After the fuel is spent, I can see the contrast to the clammy cold,
Awakened, but no happiness owned
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