Not fire now, but something kept,
where once the brightest turning slept.
A glow that lingers after flame,
too faint to hold, too soft to name.

It lives in wood that used to burn,
in lessons that the quiet learn.
Not warmth enough to call it light
but not yet fully gone into the night.

It holds no promise, makes no claim,
no longer seeks to be the same.
And still it stays, again the dark
a memory made into spark.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Sarapin, in the year 1004 AF.