When I'm shaded by the wind
and my clouded, lowered eyes
are blinded by the flames
that arise
When I'm cast upon the water
beneath the bitter skies,
I strive to be the smoke
and try to rise
Not for any person
or for any fated prize
Not for any soul
against me till the end
Not because the wind
is the pit of my demise
I strive because the smoke
would rise again
even if the air's
embittered in its spite
Even if the flame's
wearied and it's down
Even if the wind
be somewhat merciless,
I strive to be the smoke
because I've found
if rise is all you do,
then the falls- eventually-
never really keep you
from rising to the sky
If rise is all you do,
then your life- essentially-
is without a single fall
and you'll never truly die