Sometimes a fire-shout beckons him, He reckons that I need him, So I do. His task To tell me who I am behind this mask. He Phantom is, and I facade That hides the opera he writes with God, While I, all blind, Wait raptureless until his mind Steals down my arm to wrist, to hand, to fingertips And, stealing, find Such truths as fall from tongues And burn with sound, And all of it from secret blood and secret soul on secret ground.
