The Phoenix

This bird gets tired of its weary ways,

All the troubles of the foolish world.

It wouldn't store up any more long days

For a stash of silver or for gold.

Stacking all its firewood in a pile

For another life the creature yearns!

Putting on a faded smile,

Now the poor thing starts to burn!

Slowly all the coal and sparks transform

Cooling down of burning and of blaze

And out of the ashes and brimstone comes

A  new firey phoenix to start again his days!