Rowaelin

We are ancient and slow,
A fire burning red.
Time means nothing,
When you hold it in your palm.
But sometimes you show me
That you are also new and quick,
A wildfire blaze.
And I wonder how our time will end,
In a blaze of savage glory,
Chaos and destruction in our wake,
Only extinguished by others -
Or carefully contained,
To go out so fully lived,
That nothing remains.