From a tiny spark, it consumes and grows,
Turns mighty forests into hellish infernos,
Races about with foot so fleet,
Destroys all in its embrace of heat,
Like passion’s flame that burns so bright,
Quickly dies the pure, white light,
Yet, at its touch, can heal and purify.
From the cold, gray ash, new life shall spring,
And once again, the lark will sing.