Maybe I should stretch my hand and reach out for the stars.
I might find them closer than I think they are.
Maybe I should stretch my hand to the fire and old wounds might heal.

Then why fear, why hesitate?
Because the fire might tear open the old wounds instead of healing them?
Then the fire might kill instead of purify.

But how will I know what the fire will do this time?
Maybe the stars will show me, for right or wrong, for the future is neither theirs to know.

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