I am black cumin seeds thrown in the fire of your beauty. I live inside this fire. It is my home, this arrow being drawn back in a bow made of flame.
When a lover burns, he becomes the beloved. Whoever enters this becomes a soul.
Your sword has opened my chest. Sparks jump over one who has already burned completely up.
The pain of love is fire. Make my dry wood ache to catch.
Some souls are like jasmine growing inside flame. Others are roses thriving there. Only Abraham speaks the language fire speaks. He comes like smoke riding up out of a fire, the reins of flame-turning-to-smoke in his hands.
I have heard him in the early morning
telling me to leap out of the world’s fire into his fire.
Now the oven of my heart keeps asking, How long do I have to talk with flame-language
about burning and being burned? How long?