those hot and cold
tongues of flame
more brazen than bold
to wipe your name
spouting forth
so fiery, untamed
down to ashes
for every game
to douse the flame
has sprung forth
its mate in form
equal in worth
so warm, so cold
its maker alone
can make it flow
can make it mourn
for life on earth
as it takes back
from that above
for life a track
to tread on and eat
still one thing
it needs to breathe
has no mate to bring
home to please
solemly it blows
through hills and trees
a farmer's plogh
it breathes into
the child of water
air,earth and a cue
for fire- the baker
the father or rain
thunder, lightning
of rebirth,and pain
of death-
what a funny thing
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