Worth the name, source of the heat
That woke life up and the burns
Lives shield their cells from or die,
Hangs on the edge of the day,
Low near the end of the year,
In a blurred smear, a red ghost,
Like a piqued god prone to sulk.
We’ll wait. We can wait for it,
Who work best at dusk and dawn,
Who draw with ash and earth. We
Know the god can’t stop our ends,
Nor stop then on the next turn.
It’s quite a world we’re caught in,
Where the heart of power and fire
Can’t do a damn thing but burn.
