Forest Fire
Forest Fire Of late I have begun to feel a hunger To take in with greed, like a forest fire that Consumes and with each killing gains a wilder, Brighter charm, all that comes my way. Bald child in Open pram, you think I only look, and you Too, slim lovers behind the tree and you, old Man with paper in your hand and sunlight in Your hair … My eyes lick at you like flames, my nerves Consume; and, when I finish with you, in the Pram, near the tree and, on the park bench, I spit Out small heaps of ash, nothing else. But in me The sights and smells and sounds shall thrive and go on And on and on. In me shall sleep the baby That sat in prams and sleep and wake and smile its Toothless smile. In me shall walk the lovers hand In hand and in me, where else, the old shall sit And feel the touch of sun. In me, the street-lamps Shall glimmer, the cabaret girls cavort, the Wedding drums resound, the eunuchs swirl coloured Skirts and sing sad songs of love, the wounded moan, And in me the dying mother with hopeful Eyes shall gaze around, seeking her child, now grown And gone away to other towns, other arms.
Forest Fire Recently, I've started to feel a strong desire To absorb everything greedily, like a forest fire that Destroys and grows wilder with each act of destruction, More vibrant, taking in everything that comes my way. A bald child in An open stroller, you think I only observe, and you Also, slender lovers hiding behind the tree, and you, old Man with a paper in your hand and sunlight in Your hair ... My eyes reach out to you like flames, my nerves Devour; and, when I'm done with you, in the Stroller, near the tree and on the park bench, I spit Out small piles of ash, nothing more. But within me The sights, smells, and sounds will continue to thrive Forever. In me, the baby That sat in strollers will sleep, wake, and smile its Toothless smile. In me, the lovers will walk hand In hand, and in me, where else, the old will sit And feel the warmth of the sun. In me, the streetlights Will shine, the cabaret girls will dance, the Wedding drums will echo, the eunuchs will swirl colorful Skirts and sing sorrowful love songs, the wounded will moan, And in me, the dying mother with hopeful Eyes will look around, searching for her child, now grown And moved away to other towns, other arms.