I am the flame
which on
Creation’s dawn
was kindled in love’s heart
before the nightingale and the moth came
to play their sacrificial part.

I am far bigger than the sun
and pour
into each atom’s core
a potion of my light:
I lend my spark to everyone,
and it was I who made the heavens so bright.

Residing like its life-breath in
the garden’s breast,
in pristine rest,
I was drawn up into its bosom by
a tree-stem, delicate and thin,
as sap that rises up towards the sky.

It quenched my inner fire
and wanting to beguile
To me, it said, "Stay awhile,
and don’t go out into the day;"
but my heart’s long-repressed desire
could brook no more delay.

I writhed and writhed within the tree,
until the essence of my being found its way
to summits of the ecstacy
of self-display.

With its pearls of the purest water dew
bestrewed my way,
as if to say,
"O what a glorious birth !
"The morning laughed its brightest hue:
the breezes blew in hymeneal mirth.

The nightingale heard from the rose
that I had thrown
away my own
primordial consuming flame.
It said, because this crowned its woes,
"He paid a heavy price to thrive. For shame !"
I now stand by,
my breast rent open to
the sun’s effulgence so
that it may set ablaze
again the fire of my
prenatal days.