The fire had now expanded, to the world it was not visible.
She hid it well, within the tresses, they mingled slowly.
At-least she thought so, she didn't know yet, if someone saw.
Saw the flames slowly creep in and not exit from the clouds.
She was not sure, which way to look, where to hide them.
No direction so far had held her close, taken care to look.
The proximity was a fear she treasured, her little secret.
She had now known for long the songs were now dying.
She held on to them, they were dry twigs she did know.
Her hands slowly burned, she had foreseen the ash.
The flame brought the songs to ash, songs already dead.
Tears could save not much, for the tresses were longer,
The drops slowly dried, the salt which had remained,
Clung on to her consciousness, stuck to her for life.
What she could do nothing about was now a part of her,
Not her's to take, not her decision to make, not her's
Yet her soul was at stake; for it was her belief,
In life which was dead on the outside yet alive within.
She was blamed for the flame which was not her's to hide.
She was blamed for the water not being enough to ignite.
The dreams were rampant, epidemic love soon struck,
Blinded by fate and residue salt she decided to flee.
Ran as the girl; through the meadow, a wind flew.
Caught in the sudden wind the long tresses unfolded
Out emerged the lion enveloped in the flames,
Free to turn to ash what had been existing since.