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At the Tree
I said I feared the pain.
I was told one thing: "Burn."
I said I feared losing all I held dear.
The answer was the same: "Burn."
I said I feared becoming a freak and an outcast,
or of losing myself, and my place in Midgard.
Again terse words met my plea: "It does not matter. Burn."
So I plucked three burning leaves
from the Tree that arose out of Time.
After all, if He could give an eye,
I could at least attempt to dare the fire.
I placed these leaves upon my tongue,
this burning brand I swallowed.
And the fire took me. It took root in my blood.
It consumed my heart.
I stood within its flame.
And I burned.
I have had no peace since, not a day
when my heart has not tasted of flame.
Not a day when I have not shared His fate and His pain.
It does not matter. He was right.
The burning is sweet.
© Galina Krasskova, 2005
Image:
meditative_2 by
=OrgaNick:
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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