Wood slowly chars as the fire crackles;
This dying flame kept alive by all means,
It hisses at me, unending cackles;
Biting the hand that feeds, this fire seems:
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Blindly I forage in the dark forest,
Feeling for anything thing that can sustain;
The fire of which I must keep nourished.
For if it goes out, myself I will blame:
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As I stoke ashen logs, all look the same,
A golden lick singes my dirtied hand;
Why do I preserve this beautiful flame,
When this pit belongs to another man?
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Sticks and stones may break bones but with fire,
You will light your own funeral pyre.