I have a fire in my heart...
I have a fire in my heart, it burns to me
There is a lot of injustice in my homeland and free
dying justice is as rotten,
like a tormented and dried tree
I have a fire in my heart, it burns to me
Our people have great troubles:
people have gone away in search of work
people with disabilities need money
and the price is expensive
I have a fire in my heart, it burns to me
In my homeland there is no human value
people die from hard work
people die on a monthly basis
I have a fire in my heart, it burns to me
officials are arrogant, rulers are corrupt
they will crush the people
they are deceiving the people
I have a fire in my heart, it burns to me
I can never write these things in my own country!
they will pursue me
they scare me ...
I have a fire in my heart, it burns to me
i love my country but not people
Don't call me a traitor!
it's all about my heart!
it's a people's pain!
but ...
our people are cowards
this is what the tyrannical government has done to them
Survive, O dependent Uzbekistan !!!
Just like we need oxygen to breath, fire needs oxygen to burn.
Just like others drench us with hate, to bring us down, water drowns the fire.
We are all like fire, pushing through our life like fire burning through feilds of grass.
We both the fear drowning; we both fear being put out.
So, why do we turn ourself into the cursed water? Why can't we just combine into one huge flame, and never be put out again?
Ashes are inevitable
One look into her eyes and he saw the flames burning bright underneath
She had been through so much that any critique,
Any negative comment was incinerated under her coals
Until her floo was full and the ashes spilled from her eyes
Causing an explosion of magnitudes greater than any volcano
She tries to ignite the fire again,
To save herself from the water trying to put her out
But a tidal wave comes and she sees the flames die once more
For good
Fire
I have been on fire a total of three times in my life. All completely different from each other.
The first time I am only just a child and in a life or death situation. The flames whip around me, burning my skin leaving blisters that I think will never heal.The pain...It is horrendous. The smoke heavy in my lungs as I fight against the fire. I won’t let the fire consume me. I would get out and did. I did not let the fire consume me.
The next time I am a pre-teen. The burns and blisters that I thought would never heal are now just a faint scar. I am on fire but a different kind. This kind does not hurt in the way the last one did but I can feel the heat. I can feel it growing stronger and hotter in my chest. Some of it even leaking onto my face. This fire is different, it makes my face go pink. I try and fight it, to extinguish the fire. Like last time, I can’t allow the fire consume me, not matter how much they want me to.
The last time I am an adult. I am going through my life vowing to never allow myself to be on fire again but now I am afraid I have broken that vow. I am on fire again. A hot heat in my chest but unlike the times before the heat isn’t burning. It is pleasant and I embrace it. It makes me smile and laugh. It makes me feel light and happy. I give in to the fire and let it consume me. I finally am able to learn that not all fires hurt.
When the Heat Kicks In
Rooms were 10 by 10 by 10. Each of us stood in our square foot, trying not to touch fellow occupants. We’re not told how many cubicles there are like this. “Thousands,” I speculated. My neighbor to the right laughed and said, “Millions.” A fellow in background grumbled, “Billions!”
Who knew?
We stood for minutes, hours, days.
“Ready?” a voice asked from outside the walls. “Soon,” another voice whispered.
“Soon?” I pondered. “How soon?”
Then I wondered, “How soon for what?”
Each of us began to sweat. Beginning at the brow. Eyes burned from
body-salt. Underarms generated streams of drip-drops. Chests, too.
Body heat from 100 naked men and women warmed up the room. Humidity gave weight to the air. Our nostrils twitched. Throats gagged. Stomachs churned. Knees buckled. Legs ached.
“Ready!” the voice declared.
“Acknowledged,” the other voice whispered.
Temperatures rose. Sweat increased. Discomfort transitioned into pain.
“I knew it’d be hot, but not like this!” someone in the corner joked.
Several people laughed. Some giggled. Not me. Why? As a youngster, my job had been to stoke the furnace at our old stone house. I’d watched as slumbering embers got oxygen and fuel. Hot coals burst into flame and spikes of dancing fire reached brutal heights. Heat would nibble at my eyebrows and turn my cheeks red.
“Fire away!” the voice shouted.
Hell was open for business—and we were its first customers.
Lighter
The girl rolls a lighter in her pocket, running a fingertip across the rough letters etched on its side. "It was a pleasure to burn."
She finds the phrase haunting, though her father says it was a quote from an old book, a play on words of sorts...
No.
He said it was a quote. Before he left.
He was supposed to go on a two day "buisness trip".
It had been to two years and counting since she had last seen her father. Her traitor of a father
She felt her lip trembling tratariously, tears filling her eyes.
DAMMIT. Her father had left, and there was nothing she could have done to stop him. Hell, she couldn't even control her own tears. Pathetic.
Desperate for control, even if it is only over a flame, she fishes the lighter from her pocket. Then, an idea sparking at the back of her mind, she reaches a tentative finger under her matress. There. The tattered corner of an aging photograph.
Her father sat there, bouncing her as an infant on his knee. He looked so happy. Content, even. She used to pull this photo out and sob over it, wondering what she did that made him leave.
She chuckles sadly at her own naievity. She was a child then. Now she knows better.
With a sharp crack the lighter ignited, a fragile flame licking the night air. She watches the glossy photo paper buckle and heave, her fathers grin twisting, the center caving inwards, giving the man in the photo an expression of pure horror. What would he think if he could see her now, burning the last photo of him in the household? She found that she didn't particularly care.
The photo blazed brilliantly for a moment, but soon there was nothing left to burn but a pile of ashes. The flame died. The girl let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding, and wept. Not tears of grief this time, but those of release.
The man she once had called father? He was dead to her. And from the ashes of his corpse, she would rise again- a phonix in her own right.
