Do you see him? There
From the high tower with a torch in hand?
What does he say in his deep, tender voice?
The torch falling from his outstretched hand,
‘Oh, I will be the One who will create your god!
The fires howling around me, rising flames
a huge quarreling of red eagles flying through
the black and swirling smoke and wind
The god melts gold that flows around my
marble body, a blazing splendor and ardor
silken short shivers bursting and all the
the dying demons sing to the flaming
having understood that he is the One; he
is my god; my cries singing into the air
my hurricane soul rising, resigning
And he, proud god, over me the crossed
arms of a king, his glancing eye opening up the
sky reaching the furnace of all Light
whispering prayers, my own prayerful
Being: Has ever a woman died from singing?
Refusing my sacrifice, he assured me
without difficulty that it was
all just a mischief and artifice used to
strip my pride of its lies.