Pagan Fires

At our ease
We take the thread of light
From the knots of darkness,
Tend the nursery of dreams,
Cool the burning sand
With shadows of palm trees, and
For the bastards prepare a platter
Like the moon. If one day we stumble
Our roots will stand us straight
At our ease
We learn the industry
Of ants!

We do not flicker briefly
Like matches; we burn
Perpetually
Like pagan fires
Our breath is as large
As the horizon.
And at our ease
We lead the capricious horse
Of History.

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