I talked to the fire and the ashes
I brought last night upon the marshes;
they were burning and dusting
Passions and longing—
For they could not be as one
No matter how much they wanted to;

the fire kills,
The ashes bleed
All for themselves
Because they could not do it
On their own.

My fire hated wound and hated pain
Only if it is for the ashes and ashes alone
And also the grasses in the garden of the marshes.

Yes, fire is warming and calming to the core,
but is it for the ashes dropped to blown?

And for me, to make it clear:
The ashes were not ******* you get
After you allegedly burn a precious wood,
or a precious bone, of course.

The ashes were conjured  
Of memories you could not recall—
Every single shards of wood
Every singe string of gloom
Incinerated only to light your way
To light your world.

Who said that ashes worth nothing in this colored world?
Who dare say that ashes could only humiliate?

Because for us
It is the most sincere form
Of memories sacrificed.

And if the stars are too far away
We might as well burn
And be the ashes down the ground—
Because for us
The ashes are the most sincere form
Of stars deep dark below.

Why would you grab a star too far
When i’m not
So far away from you?

Like the night and the shadow within
When the fire burns
Upon the old marshes of memories.

And so, the fire and the ashes that I brought upon
Simply whispered;

Don’t let the dream of the moon upstairs
Blind you to your heart
For the flickering stars above,
when you can simply burn rocks
Burn anything
to create your own stars.