Like the cotton wick of an oil lamp,
drawing out the oil from every nook,
every corner of the lamp;
wherever the traces remain- untapped and hidden,
To keep the fire glowing.


The oil is getting over and the light,
once glowing, is still burning bright.


Its just a matter of time, who can say, for sure ?


It flickers in the wind, almost about to die off,
And then, almost inexplicably,
it comes back to life; glowing a dull fiery yellow,
refusing to fade out into the darkness;

Not as bright as before,
But a lamp's a lamp so long as it has the fire
and the oil to keep it burning.