And in the flames something dies and something finds its way to life.
The flaring light that stains the darkness, the heat that dies out in a few breathes
watch us standing in the glare of unborn now and unshaped then.
The tainted night of our faces reflects the funeral pyre: paper and ink burn bright their years of tears, uncertainty, sweat, hopes and weariness.
Sheets are our lamb - fire is our blade - and the ashes are the blood in our sacrificial fest.