The poetry it created
Through me
No one would know
What I saw in it.
I extinguished myself
In the wind
That killed the candle
When alive,
It sputtered smokily
Waiting for the throes of death
Blown in the hiss
Of life
The candle once burnt
In the corners of the West
The pail of water
Drips its soul
In which corner
Shall I light it
Where it can regain Life?
The ember of the fire
Collapses upon itself
Where do I put it now?
