The crucible is stirred
without the smith knowing when
will have been enough
as we watch the flames rise
from that glowing orange metal
as each impurity is incinerated.
After the vapor obscures the truth
beneath where the flame is hottest,
the glow of gold becoming pure
offers an intangible hope.
This is where the fire burns.

In the furnace, they dance
uncorrupted by the heat that decays
and the flame that consumes.
They dance with one
having the appearance
of the son of man.
This is where the fire burns.

Many rise and fall
in the land of her birth,
the nation of her people.
The tears of every generation
that mankind remembers
culminate in the wounds
that pierce the heart
of the mother
whose son is pierced
for the rise and fall of many.
This is where the fire burns.

The embers glow into the night
and all whom they contact
burst forth as a flame of breath
amidst the whirlwind,
the blooming rose
to consume what,
if any remains,
that will still ignite
under the heavens.
This is where the fire burns.

The treasure pours forth
from the vaults of all trust
to close the store rooms
where trust was never true.
This is where the fire burns.

The porcelain to be
laid out for the banquet
will all be more precious
for having been mended with gold.
This is where the fire burns.

The lamp is always lit
on the lampstand placed
where the inner room
being prepared for you
waits engulfed somewhere
in the blindness of night.
This is where the fire burns.

The fire that burns
where there is naught
else left to consume
resides in the heart
of the ancient of days
enwreathed in the only light
by which the blind come to see.