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In the old days lighting a fireWas a momentous decisionCollecting wood and dry tinderWas a ritual of precision.The spark when it came was preciousAnd vulnerable to wind and rainTo be well guarded and nurturedFor the chance rarely came again.Was it like that with lovers too?In times gone by did we show care?Did we load the spark with valueAnd treat love as something so rare?These days a flame is commonplaceIt's not like asking for the moonWe shrug if the fire is extinguished:"There'll be another one soon."
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