Immolating dreams become a language
Which captures bronze, silver and gold
Worlds emanating from old Gods.
You begin with fires which whisper
The oak of raw memory
As witches speak of perfect peace.
Thereafter you set out for places where
Names trace marvels of white trunk,
green leaf, red berry and brown root.
Our minds spin as you guide us
Through the calamities and triumphs
Of spheres sparked in blood and fire.
We become free, even as Tantalus
Or Sisyphus, to tread paths
Prometheus had humbly to seek.
Together, position and negation
Are your lore, gathering laughter,
Creating hope, a tune pitched
To love of Her peace.
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