Consider the burning bird
Its golden plumes smoking
And then gone
Nothing but dust
Nothing but ash
And yet in that charnal heap
The bird is born
Its death is an illusion as is its life
In dying it becomes endless
A new bird
Yet ancient.
Printable View
Consider the burning bird
Its golden plumes smoking
And then gone
Nothing but dust
Nothing but ash
And yet in that charnal heap
The bird is born
Its death is an illusion as is its life
In dying it becomes endless
A new bird
Yet ancient.