and now, the firebird of fame
has lit upon my window sill;
it knows my secret heart & name
and bids me to enjoy my fill
of what life offers in its turn,
to never fear the fate of dust:
but the rebirth it’s promising
is not one that i trust.
the morning wakes in clearing skies,
but storms await the innocent;
the firebird is beautiful
and soothes the heart that’s torn and rent
but everywhere the glow remains
the shadow follows in its wake,
and some rebirth is merely pain
we go through for pain’s sake.
so now, the firebird has fled,
and dark and wet the morning seems:
and in my secret heart and head
remain these scarlet dreams
of everything that never was.
of what’s to come, i cannot know:
but still there’s ash upon my floor,
and languor
even so
