Faith in the fire

Shadows past,

of old tribes,

glimmer in the fire,

reaching out towards my family,

people who somehow love each other,

because it's the only thing they know. 

 

Two empty baskets lay above,

supposed to be filled by ten towels,

one for each soul,

roaming the fields of home.

 

But they are empty,

and the fire isn't burning,

not one silhouette,

of a familiar face is seen. 

 

All is still,

because it's way past everyone's bedtime.

 

It's the time,

where a new day begins,

where the angels up above,

thrust their paintbrushes at the clouds,

creating orange and grape coloured skies. 

 

Reflections of the universe,

and our own hearts,

transformed into divine ecstasy.

 

Then come the birds,

awakening from their woven wood beds,

and softly chirping songs,

only they can understand.

Songs passed on by their ancestors,

who have seen it all.

 

Songs about creatures,

running down meadows of light,

down forests of green,

down rivers of gold.

 

Only they will know,

for we do not see, hear, or sing.

We exist,

we exist in eternal lives,

in glorious days,

in moonlit nights.

Its all we are here for anyway,

but with the gentle melody of the birds,

we can do more,

more than just merely be one more piece,

of the game that is life.

 

If we listen carefully, 

we can live and see,

we can feel.

 

We can feel the warmth of the fire,

the comfort of the towels,

the rays of the first sun dissolving into our skin,

the earth beneath us,

as we sing with the wind.

 

All the glory that life is,

comes to us,

if only we listened to the birds.