Breath like smoke on cold mornings;
we'd watch the sun peak over the mountains and you'd whisper,
"Phoenix rises in the east,
beak filled with song and feathers burning,
the hope of adventure at the start of a new day."
Phoenix was a mystery to a twelve year old boy with big dreams;
in the hours that passed from one dawn to the next,
I'd imagine a plume of red-orange-yellow-gold
and search the horizon as if Phoenix would choose to enlighten me
on the ways of waking the world.
Twenty years, turtle slow,
and the only thing that changed was our routine;
we watched the day start from opposite sides of the sea
but I always whispered your words in the bustle of city mornings.
When the time came for your life to start again,
you whispered of Phoenix once more.
"Phoenix sets in the west,
embers fading to dust and song stuttering,
for a moment,
into a silence even man cannot break,
a last breath of peace before rebirth."
And Phoenix remains a mystery,
but I watched the horizon line this morning with fresh eyes;
Phoenix was burning to ash when you passed
and I can't help but hope you were reborn.
That it's now you who wakes the world.
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