Secular in Fire (Sonnet I)
This secular in fire torments air
Upon the brow of summer's drying hills,
Yet softly growing ash and deep despair
Know nothing without hopeful tears and chills.
If not a God to fight for our brief death,
Then who will take the wrath of our good shames?
Perhaps not trees, nor kings can field the breath
Of we who see the life in wake of flames.
In blooming light and ease, smoke flowers grow;
The sorrow of the world in flame departs,
But screams of faith are painfully un-slow,
And oceans spill from their hearth empty hearts.
As burns crawl through and swallow up my skin,
The ash will rest and leave all us akin.