Fire

Fire

Quiet is the fire of design, whose heart burns slowly, and makes with its fingers short work of the struggle in a man; quiet the flame of time that knows no end, but turns thorn to tinder, when night arrives, and you descend the stairs leg–anthered, corolla-dressed, foot before other foot, as a panther walks down a staircase on its paws: quiet the world it moves in. Night waits for what was born a confidence which the vow of man among dead and battered faiths on the battlefield shall meet, as at the base of your stairs we look up, lissom–necked, for a means to have this life inserted into today, but also into another night again. My lion head which is heavy with remorse, walks down a path to its zone of death.

Poet: Rethabile Masilo
Source: @PoemsRethabileLikes
Books: @AbeBooks

The fire of design.

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