When I was a child I sawa burning bird in a tree.
I see became I am,
I am became I see.
In winter dawns of frostthe lamp swung in my hand.
The battered moon on the slopelay like a dune of sand;and in the trap at my feetthe rabbit leapt and prayed,weeping blood, and crouchedwhen the light shone on the blade.
The sudden sun lit upthe webs from wire to wire;the white webs, the white dew,blazed with a holy fire.
Flame of light in the dew,flame of blood on the bushanswered the whirling sunand the voice of the early thrush.
I think of this for you.
I would not have you believethe world is empty of truthor that men must grieve,but hear the song of the martyrsout of a bush of fire-"All is consumed with love;all is renewed with desire."
