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.

Rethabile Masilo
    

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