My body is made of iron,
And lead and stone.
I am not made to move,
Nor to breathe,
Nor to feel the depth of love and light
Beyond my own bewildering sorrow.
Fly me high over here,
Over these fog-leaden lands,
Where mists curl over shrewd cries,
And hide us poor beings
Underneath our sticks and stones.
Lay me down from here.
No, I’ll lay myself down.
The smoke curling its wings under feet,
And raising my soul above here,
These moors, these cries and rainbows,
Hell, fury and wind.
Smoke gathering me up beneath its salient wings,
And leaving me
Amidst a wind of changing fevers…
Are the flowers adorning the edge
Of sand-laid seas
Beheld in my inspiration.
Where sunlight leads life into fire,
And where the dawning of me begins.
It is here I rush towards.
And within me,
Lay this fever,