Fire is my child but I must be consumed and become fire. Why is there crackling and smoke? Because the firewood and the flames are still talking: “You are too dense. Go away!” “You are too wavering. I have solid form.” In the blackness those two friends keep arguing. Like a wanderer with no face. Like the most powerful bird in existence sitting on its perch, refusing to move.
Fire is my child but I must be consumed and become fire. Why is there crackling and smoke? Because the firewood and the flames are still talking: “You are too dense. Go away!” “You are too wavering. I have solid form.” In the blackness those two friends keep arguing. Like a wanderer with no face. Like the most powerful bird in existence sitting on its perch, refusing to move.
