(About my favorite story from all the stories my mother used to tell me)


A tiny spark from a dying forest fire

Flew away in the dark towards the sky

The youngest and the brightest, it grew a set of lungs

And legs and hands and a heart

Rose high with the warmth of the wave as it fell apart

Reached the moon, only to begin feeling lonely

All the things it could see from the height

The small, burnt forest, its only parent crying in the night

As if it lost a child, and all its will to fight

But it kept on rising and went beyond the moon

Away from all the reaches, too soon

It thought is this what is life?

You earn everything only to lose it all willingly

And watch it fade away, never be able to,

Knowingly, and that’s the beauty of it

To share its hurt, its feels, its emotions and its grit

With another spark, but none of the others

Had ever been alive

It tried to kick and punch and flew again

And tried to calm its hunch, it never grew a brain

So it tried to scream, but didn’t have a mouth, either

Got tired of it all and dropped a tear

Flew aimlessly, from the forest it could hear

Fly far to the stars, oh dear

That’s where you belong

One day, you’ll be known

From there you won’t feel so alone

The forest blew one last push as it died

The last glow of the night

The spark flew the farthest to the edge

Registered itself on the black carpet of the sky

Still the brightest

Even without a brain, so wise

Now a bit less lonely, and a little more alive

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