There was a drought and it lit the fire that grew so high it singed God's beard. The fire that crossed oceans and dried the tears of babies and was so bright that it inspired the writing of hundreds of poems comparing love to its light. That was days ago, weeks ago, months ago, now the news channels are all onto better stories about a bear that ate a 5-year-old's birthdaycake. All I've heard of the fire since then is the sizzle and crackle of its coals hiding away in my gut. There was a storm, and then a monsoon, and then a flood,  and the people fled the warmth of the fire. I managed to salvage its flame and it has lit the way of my darkening path since its birth. But its glow was once so bright that it blinded the weak and now when it is only a hum and a memory. They cannot see it. But I can and it will be back.