I
Each ash is raised by some dead fire— A monumentTo our lost fevers of desire, That now lie spent,In the cold discipline of death, Cooling their breath.
But you, my love, with your light tread Of Ecstasy,Will dance a measure to the dead, Who only seeThe slow encroaching mists of grey,That make a spirit's holiday.
Fire, the precursor of the ash, The wastrel flame,Fashioned the darkness with a flash Until there cameDay's reasoning economy To set light free.
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