I search the terrain for a safe place, soaring, but not so high anymore. My wings are worn and wilted... broken by past encounters. I long for a landing space, but see nothing. My body aches from months of pushing on through the wind and rain. My jaded and broken heart weighs me down. Can I continue flying?
I long for fire, for new birth, for the hope that comes in fertile ash. When will it come; it cannot be forced. I'm tired, how can this ache so much, how can the terrain below look so barren and dangerous?
Fire, I long for fire.