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Should I go quietly into the night,
Without a fight, like stars that fade unseen?
The winds would whisper secrets out of sight,
The earth would mourn where once my roots had been.

Oh let me not be shadow, swept away,
A leaf ungathered when the autumn calls—
The rivers fight to carve their restless way,
And waves will hurl themselves on ancient walls.

The oak will groan but wear its scars with pride,
The bird will shriek when storms would pluck its nest,
And mountains, cold, will not let time decide
To smooth their craggy spines to quiet rest.

Why then should I, a soul of breath and fire,
Submit to silence like the snow-bound field?
The sun does not go softly to expire,
But burns with crimson, gold, and light revealed.

No, I will rage—though soft my voice may seem,
I'll howl with foxes when the night is deep,
I'll sing with owls who haunt the silver stream,
And dance with wildflowers, though they sleep.

Let me not vanish like the dew at dawn,
Let me not yield where briar roots entwine.
I'll fight for life until the fight is gone,
And leave a trace in every branch and vine.

For nature wages war, and yet it grows,
Each death becomes a birth—a seed, a spark.
I'll rage, and leave my echo where it blows,
A quiet fight, a flame against the dark.

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