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The chill of the late fall breeze numbs my limbs
As I make my way to the tent.
The beauty of nature is unsurpassed,
But the living conditions are not.
I place the last pieces of wood on my fire,
Suppose I’ll find some more tomorrow.
I climb into the tattered cloth I call home
And make myself sleep.
I wake up.
Sleep would not bless me tonight.
I slowly make my way out of the tent,
So as not to disturb the silence that surrounds me.
The rock I find to sit on
Is quite rough and jagged,
But it’ll do.
The fire has dimmed by now,
Falling back upon itself in the struggle.
I stare at it for awhile,
For at nighttime light is the only thing to see.
The sky slowly changes from black
To a deep blue. Morning.
The last leaves are falling off the sickened trees.
My fire has now just a glow, and as
I stand up to fetch more wood, a few dead leaves
Lay down upon it. I simply stand there as flames
Quickly engulf the leaves for just a moment,
And I realize that, even when I thought it was gone,
The light was still there.