Witches

A fire will be made of everything I’ve written,

pages, ink, tears and sweat.

It will fly up in mid-air

black tissue paper, fluctuating.

Lapillus will splatter frying

from the incandescent ribs of my books,

while people around

scared withdraws.

In short time the flames

will catch up the sky

blazing with anger, red of passion.

Then, little by little, the fire will calm down,

lower and lower, something still be winding

over live coals, until nothing will be left but

a great heat and a little smoke

to tell us where, exactly,

the initiatory stake consumed

of many other witches

October 30, 2006