What of the altar's fire, burnt through flesh, now licking the bone? To the embers, we gave horns and hymns, our laughter, the blue throat of a bird. We gave the dying fire our pleasure and it caught, it burned. Our dancing drew a perimeter around the mount, then a perimeter around the perimeter. The fire warmed the earth, pleased our feet, our beautiful bodies. We were bad children, but only children. The fire grew and we gave it more: We pulled trees from the forest, burning even the roots, we gave it arrows, the hides from beneath our beds. We sang and all that was green turned orange, and all orange to black. We gave the fire the staff, the length of our hair, we gave it our bread. Father, we built your altar, but the fire grew and our desire grew with it. We were children and we became torches. But did we pass through the fire and come out clean? No. We were bad and only children. We walked into the fire. We ate the ash, we licked the bone.