Within a pulsing Mother-goddess site
An ancient priest sits alone and still
His silhouette is etched in forest night
Chanting softly to the Unnamable.
He rings a bell inside a fire facade
From lit oil lamps remembering archaic ways
In orange light his sharp hand claps are made
An antique rite alive in forest space.
He finds himself become this mantric script
Across from him, he feels the fire’s core
And rises upwards inside it’s flaming drift
As Fire answers to this primal lore
A brain- fever bird cries out in forest briar
I am the Rite, I am the Priest, I am the Fire.