He stokes the fire. The embers reveal their red glow as they turn over, and then grow black. The smoke rises in twisting plumes as the fire dies. The world is out of fuel, out of men, out of life. He stokes the fire, and blows; he gives it his breath. For a moment it’s hot, but there is nothing left to burn. It grows cold. Shivering in the night, the old god lays down his aching bones. Maybe it will last the night, he hopes, maybe the sun will return again, and trees will grow, and men will wake.