Twelve Fields of Ash
In the town by the Rocky Mountains, the Fire burned at midnight.
Those homes in wonder, gazing at the Knight,
Now lie as Twelve Fields of Ash.
Where there were walls, rise walls of fire;
Where there were rooms, sleep plumes of smoke;
Where there were colors, Ash is painting black.
And the Fire; the Fire rages on.
Cease, great Wind; I demand!
Already I know the Fire.
The beastly inferno-
Its limbs, the glowing ambiance scratching and skittering along the earth,
Clambering for prey;
The heat, its breath scorching the earth for miles around.
I see the flicker of its tongues now from afar,
Screeching fear, panic, doom!
And so the Fire, the Fire rises higher.
Knowledge, great Wind; I plea!
I know not the Ash.
It is a home,
Yet also as if a myth-
Its walls I have not felt;
Its rooms I have not inhabited;
Its color-what color?
I see only Ash, departing on the Wind.
But the Fire; the Fire rages on-
In the town by the Rocky Mountains,
Lay Twelve Fields of Ash,
For the Ash has all but vanished on the Wind.
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Comments about this poem (Twelve Fields of Ash by Frank Lewis )
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