Summer evenings fade to grey,
The day is slowly dying,
The stars and moon come out to play,
The crickets start their crying.
Cicadas chirp like tribal drums,
Their tempo soft and steady,
The nightlife hears a quiet hum,
And stand half-cocked and ready.
Our fireflies descend ablaze,
The night is burnt by fire,
The children catch the wandering strays,
A torch they do desire.
A jar of light they take inside,
A treasure, or so it seems,
But human ears they do decide,
To ignore the fire's screams.
One by one the lights go out,
They dwindle down to ashes,
The children wake only to pout,
The fire no longer flashes.
Except for one that heard the pain,
A pure soul clean as light,
And as long as it doesn't rain,
Our fire returns tonight.
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