My head a fiery tower.

What, then, is this blood

Ever rooted in the sand?

What, then, this decline?

Flaming instants nullify our words.

My soul’s forgotten its passion’s purpose,

forgotten its heritage,

Hidden in a house of forms,

Forgotten what the rain recounts,

What the tree’s ink inscribes.

What cleaves me from myself?

Might I be more than one?

My history, my ruination?

My Promised land, my pyre?

Might I be several,

Each interrogating the other?

Who are you and where from?

If this be madness,