Among the riches that gleamed and spoke,
Charcoal failed to shimmer but smoke.
Hidden within that rough of gems,
It breathed fire and warmed cold dens.
Why so glum? You serve a fine purpose,
But Charcoal no longer wished to feed a furnace.
So it threw itself against grain and sand,
And found itself an artist’s hand.
Charcoal made only one request,
Give me a subject so I can express.
The artist grinned.
A wayward kite, soaring high above the sky, sought a bit of heaven, a taste across its sails. Struggled and stretched, its line nearly spent. It pleaded for the wind to bend. The wind, hearing the kite’s wish, returned not with force but with course: “Bend and your line will break. Forever riding heaven’s currents, but leaving nothing in your wake. Retreat and sail another day. Forever living the struggle, but with renewing purpose and say.” The kite, heeding the wind’s wise words, withdrew to continue its tale.
An old lighthouse keeper kept the tower lanterns burning for thirty long years. Yet, hardly any ships could be seen, neither entering the horizon nor leaving the coast. Frustrated by decades of seemingly fruitless labor and depressed with life, the keeper one day extinguished the flames and went to bed early. Now awaiting for permission to die, he dreamed of a raging storm; white lightning ripped the blackened sky asunder as ocean and hail pounded the lighthouse and surrounding town. The pounding however was real, as the keeper awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of fists and voices at his door. Many townsfolk, who used the lighthouse for navigating the dark streets after dusk were concerned that the old man had fallen ill or died. The keeper apologized, donned on his glasses which turned a bit misty and relit the lighthouse flames.