Night crowds in, closing in on the house,
This house which is so full with tired sleep,
With the waiting books by the fireplace,
Which glows with the sorrows of the day,
The coals hot from the previous fire,
Embers, unlikely to fade to ash.
Fed with new fuel and watched, they will burn
Glowing steady for the close of day,
And you can warm yourself against them,
You, accompanied by ritual,
Will think it nothing to sit and wait,
With the waiting books by the fireplace.
While the sorrow burns and the earth turns.
Everything we’ve taken for granted
Is in that fire, the smoke up the flue,
So that neighbours passing by can smell
The sorrow of the day as it burns,
And through the window, the firelight glow,
Can be seen bright, from the cold pavement.
The cycles of seasons ebb and flow,
The spring-time heat and the winter’s snow
And all the while, the sorrow fire burns,
With the waiting books by the fireplace.