A boy sits beneath the tree,
boiling water—wild and free.
A spark escapes—the forest sighs,
as fire leaps to kiss the skies.

Sequoia longs for flame’s release,
its seeds locked tight find no peace.
Ash and rain—a bitter blend—
from death, new roots of life descend.

But fierce is fire—it does not choose.
It births the tree, but takes the youth.
The boy who lit the dark with light
was swallowed by the blaze that night.

The river black will soon run clear,
saplings rise where the boy sat near.
His flame made life—the forest breathes,
his soul now sown among the leaves.

Life and death—a breath, a stream,
not loss, but change within the dream.
The flame does not lament nor grieve—
it burns, it gives, then takes its leave.