They speak of the Phoenix with feathers of fire
Which scintillates forth from its funeral pyre,
Reborn into radiance, relaunched into light,
From its prism of pain into heavens of flight.
They speak of its plumage of purple and gold,
Of its nimbus that no earthly heartache can hold,
But forget that it flies with the taste on its tongue
Of the ashes of worlds that will never be sung.
Yes, they speak of its birth into sunbursts of sky,
Into spheres of new hope where to live is to fly,
But forget that each wingbeat is born of the flame
That made living and dying taste almost the same.
How it soars to escape the implacable flame
That makes living and dying taste almost the same.