"Meadow Circle: The Spark-Givers."
There is a small meadow in the middle of the forest.
There are torches that surround the clearing.
These small flames burn night and day
And neither the wind, nor the rain, nor the snow
Can put out these small flickering flames.
In the center of the circle there stands a man.
He stands there each day, looking up.
Looking up to the sky, following the sun
And the moon with his head and eyes.
At times, one of the flames will flare
Up and become an enormous bolt
Of fire that erupts as if lightning has
Struck the earth, but it clearly is not.
The bolt of fire will swirl and swell
Hotter and hotter, and hotter until it seems
That there will be an explosion of some sort
But slowly the sputtering, spitting, pillar
Of flame lowers from its position, pouring
Down from the sky. But really, it's not that big,
Just a small flutter in the flame.
A small spark jumps from the torch at the
Outskirts of the circle and alights on the
Jacket of the man standing in the center,
Head to the heavens. His clothing bursts
Into flame. But not at all. It's just a small
Spark. Just a small flame that I caused
To jump to his clothing. He's fine. No big
Deal really because he isn't hurt. But he is.
He is on fire. He is burning alive under his skin.
Flesh is melting and still his eyes are fixed
Steadily on the skies to where his strength seems
To come. The sun, the moon, and so many stars.
Yet there is a distant look in his eyes that would
Cause any onlooker to pity him. To die inside one's
Self. To pour the flame from him to them. To take
The place of such a dying man as he. But they can not.
The forest will not allow them to enter the circle.
They must be content allow their sparks to fly from
Their torches, to catch the man on fire even more
Each moment. For the sparks are just each moment
That they tell themselves that things will, in the end,
Be alright, and that right now the man is not dead.
He's always been there, dying, but not dead.
The sparks really are pillars of fire.
Blasting this one man each passing second.
Yet he does not cry out in anguish, but in love.
In utter forgiveness and pity.
Pity on Them.
Pity on the Spark-Givers.
Pity on the continuers of the Flame.
The Spark-Givers.
They are each one of everyone who has ever
Entered the forest.
For, the forest is the only path and the path
Is threaded through the entire forest.
No one can escape the Meadow Circle.
It is where the fire kills the only truly living man.
The sun and moon and stars keep passing
On their course while this man dies each
Inch they crawl.
And each morning we look to our torches.
We, the Spark-Givers, stock the flame with plenty.
For we are forever full of Flame.
Full of Death.
Die, Die, Die now.
We kill each day our loving Saviour,
But do we really care at all who and what He is?
Burning, Flame, Spark, Spark, Spark.
There are torches that surround the clearing.
These small flames burn night and day
And neither the wind, nor the rain, nor the snow
Can put out these small flickering flames.
In the center of the circle there stands a man.
He stands there each day, looking up.
Looking up to the sky, following the sun
And the moon with his head and eyes.
At times, one of the flames will flare
Up and become an enormous bolt
Of fire that erupts as if lightning has
Struck the earth, but it clearly is not.
The bolt of fire will swirl and swell
Hotter and hotter, and hotter until it seems
That there will be an explosion of some sort
But slowly the sputtering, spitting, pillar
Of flame lowers from its position, pouring
Down from the sky. But really, it's not that big,
Just a small flutter in the flame.
A small spark jumps from the torch at the
Outskirts of the circle and alights on the
Jacket of the man standing in the center,
Head to the heavens. His clothing bursts
Into flame. But not at all. It's just a small
Spark. Just a small flame that I caused
To jump to his clothing. He's fine. No big
Deal really because he isn't hurt. But he is.
He is on fire. He is burning alive under his skin.
Flesh is melting and still his eyes are fixed
Steadily on the skies to where his strength seems
To come. The sun, the moon, and so many stars.
Yet there is a distant look in his eyes that would
Cause any onlooker to pity him. To die inside one's
Self. To pour the flame from him to them. To take
The place of such a dying man as he. But they can not.
The forest will not allow them to enter the circle.
They must be content allow their sparks to fly from
Their torches, to catch the man on fire even more
Each moment. For the sparks are just each moment
That they tell themselves that things will, in the end,
Be alright, and that right now the man is not dead.
He's always been there, dying, but not dead.
The sparks really are pillars of fire.
Blasting this one man each passing second.
Yet he does not cry out in anguish, but in love.
In utter forgiveness and pity.
Pity on Them.
Pity on the Spark-Givers.
Pity on the continuers of the Flame.
The Spark-Givers.
They are each one of everyone who has ever
Entered the forest.
For, the forest is the only path and the path
Is threaded through the entire forest.
No one can escape the Meadow Circle.
It is where the fire kills the only truly living man.
The sun and moon and stars keep passing
On their course while this man dies each
Inch they crawl.
And each morning we look to our torches.
We, the Spark-Givers, stock the flame with plenty.
For we are forever full of Flame.
Full of Death.
Die, Die, Die now.
We kill each day our loving Saviour,
But do we really care at all who and what He is?
Burning, Flame, Spark, Spark, Spark.