Feed it to the fire.

Shake off all the dead wood,
Chuck it on the fire,
As the wind blows stronger,
The flames climb ever higher.

It’s a mystery that we claim,
When we come into this world,
When we put upon our name,
And learn to shape its words.

All troubles are the allies,
Of the spirits we rely on,
That rough edges do us favours,
That there’s little use denying.

It’s a mystery we accept,
When we’re pulled between the worlds,
When we’re struck by flailing limbs,
With whipping stings, we learn.

Shake off all your dead wood,
And feed it to the fire.
As the wise old wind blows stronger.
Your flame climbs ever higher.