The brave ashes

On the sore of a river,
beside the ponderous forest,
from the burning dry woods,
they were born.

They smell poignant,
a grief that expanded,
from the dead wood,
till they’re burned to charcoal.

The whirling of them,
with the smoke feels like,
milk centrifuged in churning,

The black smoke with white ashes.
they travelled with the air,
from plants to plants,
from trees to trees,
from land to waters,
from everywhere to nowhere.

Some of ‘em just stayed there,
with the burning wood,
they found peace with themselves,
others keep roving.

From green flesh,
to the brown wood,
and to the burning,
then to the ashes,
is a journey,
which the brave ashes
keeps living after dying,
so many lives,
so many times.