a time to burn and a time to extinguish.

The little match was lit, it glowed brightly in the dark. The fire was little, like a baby flame just born.

The hundred year old oaks pleaded with the arsonist. Please, please don't do it. The arsonist was adamant, he could not be moved by words.

"No."

The burning matchstick was tossed into a pile of dead leaves. The bright embers shone in the night, the fire grew slowly. Like an evolution, the baby flame had erupted into full blown adulthood. Nothing stood in its path, it spread as far as the winds could carry it. Even the mighty oaks fell, one by one, their grand majestic self that once stood tall and proud were singed like burning torches. And all was silent except the cracking of the flames, they cackled with joy. The shrubs and that plants howled with agony but nothing could escape their mouths. The forest was coloured red and yellow, with a black backdrop. One could almost imagine the end of the world to look something similar.

It was almost as if all was lost, and then the great black cloud brought teardrops from the heavens.