What of the altar's fire, burnt through flesh,
now licking the bone? To the embers, we gave
horns and hymns, our laughter, the blue throat
of a bird. We gave the dying fire our pleasure
and it caught, it burned. Our dancing
drew a perimeter around the mount, then
a perimeter around the perimeter. The fire
warmed the earth, pleased our feet,
our beautiful bodies. We were bad children,
but only children. The fire grew and we gave it
more: We pulled trees from the forest,
burning even the roots, we gave it arrows,
the hides from beneath our beds.
We sang and all that was green turned orange,
and all orange to black. We gave the fire
the staff, the length of our hair, we gave it
our bread.
                  Father, we built your altar, but the fire
grew and our desire grew with it. We were children
and we became torches. But did we pass through
the fire and come out clean? No. We were bad
and only children. We walked into the fire.
We ate the ash, we licked the bone.