So you,
spark fed by the wind
laying waste to the forest;
whisper on the ear
becoming a tornado;
ripple spreading in the ocean,
birthing the tsunami;

the soul of the earth
men would let blood for;
and the flower
growing from the bones of the dead,

what say you to sleep?

And what fault then
lies in the spark,
in the breath,
in the ripple?

We are, all of us,
formed from the dust of the ground
and the death of the star.

So who is to blame this night?
The beauty of this destruction
is in the birth from the ashes.


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