The Chronicle Gambia

Sleeping Fires

When the fire dies to ember, it is not dead

A series of gentle blows, will nurse it back to life

It withdraws into itself, hopeful, waiting for the day

It settles and lives for the feeble puffs that come its way

Igniting it just enough to stir a memory, the shadow of a glow

Then sink again into ashy craving

patient, warm, affectionate.


When your fire dies to ember, you may wait for the blow

But sometimes you don’t need the wind, in cascade or temperate flow

Just pay heed to what is around you, so much more can set you alight.

Perhaps you lie on a bed of dry leaves and don’t even realize

Or it lies not too far away, hoping you’d stretch an arm

Let loose a piece of ember, will you?

Let it roll some way

If the bed of leaves catches fire, the fire will engulf you too

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