The fire, next time,
is already here
singeing the margins
rushing to the core
feasting on forest
swallowing lakes
Made a pact with brother wind
And now rips through ravines
Ravenous in its journey
Embers glow
Like ancient tiger eyes
Staring at our consumption
As she snarls her ghost saber tooth
The fire, this time
Is in no forgiving mood
Does not engage in games
Of mirrors and smoke
It tattoos its mark
Of the Beast
On the Innocent
And the Wicked
Their bones turning
To the same
Fine, purified dust
No ornery resistance
May block its path:
It won’t be appeased
By youthful sacrifice
Or mass persistence
It will rip our heart from
Inside our ribs
Scattering us tearfully
To no quarters
So that cleared
Of our excesses
And attachments
We are forced to meet the dry bone
Of our true essence
Low on the ladder of existence
Torched in a second
millennial long charades
Of our mastery over
The universe and all its life forces.
Pina Piccolo, 14 August 2021
Featured image: Blake’s illustration of his poem.