My light is a feeble thing. It almost sputters and dies. The hand that shelters me is my only hope for life. The extent of my fuel is not even a finger's length; nor my dim, flickering flame able to scatter the pitch of night. In a moment, I shall be gone. Too many times, it has almost been so. Were it not for His sustaining breath, His keeping the winds at bay, I would have already left. I am a poor, broken thing: a parody of light. I weep to see the Sun, beneath Whose brilliance I fade as if never having been. Now He lets me go. I fall, my screams a guttering stacatto of flashes of almost light... And land, upon a leaf -- a dry, old leaf, within a forest whose woods have seasoned over thousands of years: ages, cycles. In but moments, the roar of a deafening blaze shall be its only sound.