From the timber of oak
Dance flickering flames.
They turn into smoke,
Shaping riddles and games.

Up the chimney they go,
Watch spark follow spark.
But no one must know
What they find in the dark.

Yet while embers they die,
Departing this earth,
I ask myself why
Always death follows birth.

Poetry by Maglor
Read 743 times
Written on 2005-06-08 at 17:14

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Mike Ingram
Even seeds have to die before they're planted, and live again... surely we're no different!