The Phoenix

Phoenix bird, burning bright,
stretching wings of brilliant light.

Watching your flame I often wonder
why you fly with peals of thunder.

Majestically your feathers glow,
but no man can know,

what first lit your flame,
heated feather glow the same.

As men seek to pluck them out,
you don't cry, but shout.

How can a bird, noble and true,
after death be always new?

Loving itself until the end,
about which many poets penned.

The cycle of death, and life
you are both husband and wife.

Heroes try and cut you down,
depriving you of your rightful crown.

For some time they did succeed,
causing your wings to break and bleed.

If you reignite yourself,
through burning, back to health.

Scorching your wings of brilliant red,
lifting again your majestic head.

Flames at dusk fill the sky,
wise men look up and cry.

The protector of those who wander at night,
always at dusk takes comforting flight.

For travelers lost he lights the way
so they wander in light like day.

Keeper of the eternal fire,
fly ever on, and do not tire.

When oppressed by winter's hand,
it does not change his eternal plan.

Majestic scarlet, echos of blood
wings unleashing the winds of flood.

Rippling muscles shine in the light,
as you take your victory flight.

Enemies below strewn, and slain.
Layers of death on the battle plain.

Aftermath, majestic and true,
your victory flight, flew.

Trailing behind are embers,
in the night the flame glitters.

For if the Phoenix does not live,
what love to earth can he give.