At the starta tiny spark, it grows and grows, and becomes fire.
It burns clear, bold and untamed, its want for life—insatiable.
Where are you, bright days of my youth? My hair is gray, like ashes.

A bottle, tossed on the shore by someone's hand, breaks to pieces,
yet survives, worn by the waves, becomes sea glass, frosted and smooth.
Shattered hearts do not heal with time—their burning shards remain sharp.


"I see onelow to the grass!" "I see one, tooup in the tree!"
Each firefly—a miracle, children's faces glow with pure joy...
In the dark, I stand surrounded with memories of past summers.

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