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Marcus Nordlund
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Ash and Fire
We trace our lines
across her face,
say our grace
when a wrinkle appears
on her brow：
is she cross,
is she cross
with us?
If it be now, 'tis not to come;
if not to come, it will be now;
if it's not now, yet it will come.
Ash and fire feel no ire,
air and rock do not conspire,
tumuli ignore what they engorge.
But cowering at the gates of hell
there's hatred in the molten swell,
humanity lies naked by the forge.
Children have come
and gone,
come undone
to the sound of her heart
as it stops
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and starts,
come apart
when she stirred.
If it be now, 'tis not to come;
if not to come, it will be now;
if it's not now, yet it will come.
Waves of rock that boil and braise,
the air itself is set ablaze,
the rearing earth intimidates the sun.
But rising up beneath the knife
the heady life turns ready life,
humanity is welded into one.
And so we are ground,
ground down,
ground so fine
like a powder that falls
on her mound
as she's ground,
ground down,
with us.
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