Who has asked us
to pass through gates
when the day goes out
and fires awaken
the work of a thousand hands
Amongst trees, stones, tents
sigh, twitch, flicker
wreathed shadows
the ritual
the ashen hand
the bronzen tongue
the bitter drink
The seed of hate
sprouts fresh
in our midst
entwines us
into deepest roots and
feeds us from
the ripest berries
An old fiend arises
from new flesh
in likenesses
of icy steel
on a dull mirror
that is mine.