The spastic flame that dances fast:
too weird to match to drum.
The teary eye strays into trance
as if deadened by rum.

Where will the flame transport us now
that smoke has made us cry?
Where will the cracking sounds take us
as we turn to the sky?

The moon is out and casts a glow,
a glow of milky white.
And each dim point of starlight burns
trillions of times as bright
as that feeble, little campfire 
that rules what I now feel:
the heat, the smoke, the popping sounds
that now make my head reel.