These people are not made of skin and bone,
They are made of ash and light,
Of cold fury and a hope that burns
Bright as the moon.
They twirl and spin,
To long forgotten songs,
For although they only live for moments,
Those few are as eternal as night.
They swell with pride in
A feverishly determined kind of fight
Dwells within their scalding depths.
As the flames rise, they whisper, they dance,
Shadows soaring into the mist,
Arms reaching into the void,
Freed from the home of ash that claims them,
If only for a moment.
They drift upwards,
In shards of sparks
And in whispers of smoke
To go and join the stars
Where these burning ashes
are doused by darkness.