The fervid, vehement Phoenix,
My puny feet anchored into the searing, torrid earth as I stood still;
A bird—red as blood—pierced my hungered eyes and starved soul,
Scorched the land, hurled beating waves of vibrancy high and low,
And flaunted the most indelible hypocrisy—
A tapered beak enticed the most beautiful silver-tongued song.
Phoenix, how different your world is,
Wealth is measured in brio of color, not value of coins;
Your wingspan spreads across the unimpeded, azure skies—above the burnt roads down here.

And now as I reminisce those few seconds, a smile ferrets out,
Warm tears dwindle from the corners of my eyes—I lift my head up;
I break loose from the encompassing shell, unveiling the powerful vermilion beneath my skin,
The fiery ardor inside me erupts; no wind or wave can subdue my glow.
The Old Yogis once enlightened me with their song—concerning a hidden soul that ceases to die,
Up until now, though, I regarded their song as just that—a song.
I call upon the oceans and clouds—vaunt, throw your toughest challenge.
Nothing can bring me down, nothing can overpower me;
I have wings.