Here in bliss,
the sun of this-
the salt of soil,
in light, does toil.
A sense of seen,
above, between-
to share with few,
who knew,
we too.
When essence fled,
as tongues do shed-
said spark, twards you,
did flyro.
Returned, in kind,
refilled my mind-
arson of choice,
eye spyro.