There is a fire, burning day and night.
I, every day, keep attempting to blow it out;
Execute its light from the lantern in my hand
Though already burned from the flames.
The light has grown low as the wind whips.
The wax on the candle is melting, dripping slowly,
Puddle-ing in the lantern’s bottom while the flame dims,
Always trying to brighten its light.
But the wind has whipped enough; my hands are too burnt,
To let the flame live its grieving life.
So, I raise its body to my lips and blow gently.
The flame falls over like paper into the molding sea.
The lantern is dark and the handle is cold.
I drop it and let the wind carry it off in the grasses.
I’ll just walk away, wherever the wind shall take me,
But my hands are still burned.