The flame is beautiful when it burns bright,
Even when it’s not, embers can bring it back to life.

Unraveling one’s fable seems foreign tongues,
Jack Frost’s breath will chill the lungs.

All that’s needed has been provided,
What happens next is still undecided.

Whether frozen on the steps of a burning palace,
Or with exceptional family but seeing only the malice.

Everything can change with the strike of a match,
Any arsonist can tell you that.

So sell the matches, or let them burn,
Warm the fingers, ‘cause nothing is earned

Mother’s face in the stars above,
Who never took flight in the form of a dove

Then it happens, numbing cold trickles in,
Much too soon, the last year’s come to an end.