Cinders
After each night the sun will rise again.
At the end of each winter there is a spring.
After each death there is a birth and when
All the rain has passed the birds will soon sing.
Will a phoenix always rise from the still
Smoking ashes of it's glorious pyre?
Or will it's remains be blown from the hill
Into oblivion, high and higher?
Will some beauty always come from the pain
That lances through life like a well thrown spear?
Will the clear sun always shine through the rain,
Or will there be nothing except for fear?
From the ash a phoenix will always rise
And no storm will forever cloud the skies.
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