The pyre burns bright, brighter
than the sun that lit it. It shines
across the empty plains, awakening
no-one but the lifeless stones.
The pyre burns brighter now. A
path between two kingdoms is lit
by its majesty. Kings and beggars
as one in pyre’s pilgrimage, march.
The pyre dulls, if briefly. The million
million worships fade and die in
questioning belief of the fire gift,
solace is lost in dampened flames.
The pyre burns cold, blue light
and ice sheet shining. Night time
whispers keep lonely fire company,
there are none to praise the flames.
The fire burns bright, brighter than
the dead sun that once lit its way.
Those it burned for are dead and gone,
but the pyre will remember with flames.