Buck George.

By Fire

In our fire ring, the rocks glow red inside.
Sparks escape from the flames and float and drift
Until extinguished by a breeze too swift.
Our fire competes with no one to give light
Except for the moon on this bright dark night.
By fire we sit, with only time to bide.

We talk of things that were, of things that are,
Of things that may one day be, or ought to.
For such talk as this there are hours too few.
We have here withdrawn for too brief a time
To restore our rhythm and find our rhyme,
In hope we've not wandered away too far.

We stoke the fire; the flames have tried to hide.
They have grown weary listening to us
Talk of things philosophers won't discuss.
On the truth we had hoped to shed some light,
The moon now setting on this bright dark night.
Yet still we sit, with only time to bide.


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