• For 500 years this fire has been lit,
    now he's flying, building a nest, a pit.
    Gathering cinnamon twigs all around,
    scoping out these to be found.
    Swooping down, putting each twig into place,
    molding them into a lace.

    Finally, this fire is prepared to die and start anew,
    now waiting to make this majestic view.
    He sits in the nest,
    stretching out his wings, propping out his chest.
    The flame erupts into a wildfire,
    the bath of fire grows higher and higher.

    The mythical bird torched himself to death,
    ashes are left, nothing of the bird not even a breath.
    Still is the land, everything is in silence,
    there is not one defiance.
    Suddenly movement comes out of the rubble,
    a new bird has been lit and looks as a double.

    A young Phoenix has been born,
    brilliant gold, flaming red, this is something to adorn.
    Its embalming the ashes of the old phoenix in an egg of myrrh,
    doing this task with a great deal of spur.
    Grasping the egg with fierce talons of gold,
    flying in the sky with a strong hold.

    A blaze in the sky is taking the egg away from the necropolis,
    soaring to the city of the sun, Heliopolis.
    Watch as he approaches that city,
    above Heliopolis now, he deposits the egg without pity.
    The young one's task is done,
    now this flame is heading off for some fun.

    This is my tale,
    a tale of what Thomas hails.