It’s as if we’ve forgotten
what it was like
to built a fire together,
to gather
around the heat and
let the stories spill from our hearts
and impart
the wisdom of our ghosts
to the ones who needed it most.

It was in that first flame
we became the same,
for the fire melted our admonition
and left behind the admiration
of the story in the flame.

The heat was wondrous,
and its divine surplus
filled up through the woods
just like the words
of our fathers.

We listened then,
and when
the fire demanded
we were commanded.
We hoisted the piles
and smiled our smiles
as we carried the wood
to the flame.

Yea, as time flew on,
we saw the dawn.
The sun brought a new age
of impotent rage.
This fire we shared
couldn’t be compared
to the brilliance of the sun.

How then, when the moon
brings all too soon
the biting cold,
and winter too bold,
will we sing our tune?
The sun will return,
perhaps that will spurn
on our blessings,
clothe us in new dressings
(when will we learn?).

So the flame dies down now,
and no one knows how
to reignite it,
and instead fight it,
fan it,
ban it,
and when it’s left,
all that’s left,
is the story
that’s been buried in the ash.

-JR Simmang


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