I found you dusty and unkempt, under a carpet of ordinary lives.
What should I do with you, I thought.
You, a reluctant gem, you sleeping genie.
Should I dust you off and set you in my ring?
Or should I let you be to sleep peacefully,
Happy, content, unawakened?
Could I give you hand-mirror, I thought,
Just so you saw your fire, your deep red rareness?
And then kiss that flame to life only to burn in it?