It licks up the stumps and cinders the sticks,
Flickering, crackling, one sees and one hears,
Oranges, reds, all shades seen as one nears,
Flickering, crackling, to ash as it licks.
Left now, untouched, through the cold night it lies,
Left to cool, left to be blown anyway
That is pleased. Yet, seen in the light of day,
Watch, out of the powder does it arise.
Powerful creature, this wonderful bird.
Stretching for the skies, reaching for the white
Cotton above, it is checked in its flight,
Is slowed, restricted, like swimming in curd.
Does it break the shackle, to be so bold?
No, the binding of life must firmly hold!