It is the time when beauty's lost, that beauty we desire; Only when the embers wane do we miss the fire. The wind may come, our very breath, and douse the dancing flame, And we will mourn this fiery loss, for death we could not tame. The air, a mystery to some, may also reignite our breath And bring the dwindling embers back from the verge of death. The breeze may also take the ash and scatter to the world, Where Saturn has his winning hour, the ouroboros unfurled. But even though the phoenix is a bird born out of fire, It still remains a bird, so ash in air may take it higher. Like a comet in the sky, it bursts into a blaze, And there we see the peacock's tail in all its glistening rays; A vision short of splendour, a star to match our sun, And then each grain of sand from this hourglass becomes one. Fermented and reforged, a bolt of light makes its ascent – More than beauty is regained; there is no need for this lament.