Fools! Who can vanquish the fires of the sky
Over which even storms hold no dominion?
Behold! Constellations gleam from eye to eye!
The radiance of a sun in every pinion,
Holding her aloft on winds borne from the breath
Of men adoring the herald of their death.
What sway holds repose o’er this gleaming goddess
Who is born from that to which man must return?
“Phoenix!” they call her, “Conflagrating empress!
Who sets with the sun but to rise from the urn.”
Nay, ‘tis death that bends knee underneath her wing
And all his subjects silenced to hear her sing.
Yet all flames must pass,
Returning to ash,
And so too the muse of flame!
Grows weary her soul
When passions grow cold
And rejoicing turns to shame.
Wing, tail and talon, and plumage go lightless
Skeleton and sinew crumble into dust.
Nothing remains of the empress, but a flightless
Worm, wriggling as suffocated passions must.
Suffer not to smoulder what may again blaze,
Lest the phoenix rule you the rest of your days.
