There is a hill somewhere with the remains of a fire. 
Embers once red and hot lie there cold and black 
Evidence that we were part of a tribal people. 
In the cold, we sat 
and ate 
and talked. 
The elements were a part of us 
and we a part of them. 

The smoke once rose from that fire 
into the heavens giving back the heat 
that came from the sky. 
Time and years come together at the fire. 
Where young and old, 
past and future 
lived together as if all were now. 

In the now cold embers 
a voice says remember me when I'm dead. 
Part of a people who are no more 
Part of a life that is no more 
Unless each of us remembers a fire. 

This call composed by Lark Ritchie #275 
 

© 1992, Lark Ritchie. All rights reserved.