Soaring high up in the sky with its fiery wings;
Traces of crimson ashes falls as it glades forming rings.
With a shrieking cry that calls upon the land;
The ground will tremble, illuminating the darkness beyond.

An immortal cycle this mighty bird journeys on,
A burning passion, a virtue that only among the brave belongs.
How can one maintain such pain? Burning endlessly through eternity,
Was it a gift or a curse? Or perhaps an order that only knows by the almighty.

Legend has it that this bird lives on forever that it can never die,
From the ashes it may for a moment belong, then soon rise, revived by fire.
Scorching, burning like the eternal sun as it soars once again.
Offering warmth with it's infernal embrace, while the blazing remains.

This is what I know of the mythical phoenix.
As precious and old like those ancient relics,
A myth that symbolizes now bravery and hope
That one must stand back up against any fall.