A single spark drifts down,
Twinkling like a star in the night sky,
Until it lands softly on the kindling.
Then, a soft wind blows from the east,
Encouraging the little spark,
And the dried grasses, long since withered,
Eagerly accept the heat.

A flame is born.

Slowly, it begins to spread,
And increase in strength;
It reaches out for food,
And takes new wood for its life.
But the east wind is fickle;
At once it blows hard upon the flame,
Carrying away the heat,
Then it blows not at all,
Depriving the flame of its breath.
Eventually, the fire is weakened,
To a single smoldering twig.

But as the wisp of smoke rises upward,
A western wind begins to blow,
Carrying with it a sweet scent,
And stirring the flame to new life.