The smoke, a whisper born from flame. Not guilt, not innocence- it bears no name. The lighter sparks not to condemn, but to reflect the fire within them.

It wasn’t made for anger’s rise, yet in lonely hands, it fuels the skies. A tool of warmth, a fleeting glow, becomes the shadow we let grow.

When smoke drifts out across the field, it pains the truth we’ve long concealed, the colors dance, a mirror bright, revealing flames from inner night.

But what burns down can rise again, through tender hands, through earth and rain. The ash, a bed where new life stirs, effort and time rewrite what occurs.

So let the smoke teach, not condemn, a fleeting phase of what we stem. For every blaze can shape the way, to brighter fields and clearer days.