It will pass, and so it should.
The flame requires so much wood
to burn and warm and brighten here –
where you eat and laugh and sleep,
the fire glistens in your eyes,
illumines your lips, and then it dies.
If only I could flame for longer
than it takes to burn this wood:
a life, a body, time, heart, mind.
But only if I pass along
the flame to your eyes, your mind,
and kindle in your nerves a fire
to pass it in your turn, do I,
a thin chain of yesterdays,
light and warmth in a palm-shaped pyre
(down generations, relay of fire),
live in tomorrow and make it good.
If I would, as all desire,
hope, dream, pray, vow,
I must burn now.