Strike two stones or cross two wires, and I may wake a sleeping fire.

Blue, pink, imperial orange, though pure I have no color at all. Hard silicate ingeniously, or igneously layered, lead to my vitreous shine. It is thought my name comes from a word in Sanskrit that is a homonym for a small savory Spanish appetizer.

Harvest, blood, blue, and pink are all variants of me. When I'm full, what ensues is nothing short of insanity.

It is said every rose bears these, Hidden like secrets beneath velvet leaves. They guard the blooms that hearts adore, Whispering the price that beauty bore. Their pointed kiss may leave a scar, A fleeting reminder of how fragile we are. For beauty and sorrow walk entwined, And even fairiest roses draw blood with time.

I can brighten a photograph or brighten a stormy sky. Either way, I’m gone almost immediately.