How high, we ask, has the sun yet climbed?
We wonder, hope, but do not know.
No other star we can see so shines,
And yet perhaps it's only show.
It can seem our star has risen far
At some times and in some respects;
But then past glory or future hope
Becomes all that our world reflects.
Except the troubled ascent of man
The world's not seen a star like this,
That rises, and falls, to rise again —
Abyss to bliss to precipice.
Yet looking closely the mind discerns
That, even when our sun grows dark,
In the molten core a fire burns,
Ignited by an ageless spark.
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire