A coal – pitch black –
in a room completely dark
No trace of flame,
not even a spark.

Is that a breeze from the distance?
No, it’s more – someone breathing.
He’ll refuse to give up
On that coal – still believing

And hoping that there’s life
buried in that coal’s heart.
He keeps blowing, holding on,
“Maybe something will start.”

“It’s all over,” says another,
“Despair in its death,”
But look closely - red pulsing –
In rhythm with the breath!

Life stirring within,
From what seemed only ash.
And then that faint glow
Pushes back with a flash!

Multicolored bright flicker
Arises in flame,
Each moment unique –
A pyrotechnic game!

Vital warmth, playful light,
Flickering butterfly.
Such a delicate danger,
Can give hope or terrify,

But where did it come from?
All that beautiful power?
Different shapes and contortions,
This hot, consuming flower?

Deep inside that dark coal,
It was there all along,
Just waiting to be freed,
To sing its light-song.