Transfiguration
The vast planes open before me.
How is it that I have come to be here?
A breeze blows
The dry blades of grass,
Under the golden orb, Apollo
Hath shown, his golden bow gleaming,
Its deadly shaft piercing the sky
And warming the ballet of swaying leaves.
“I am the fire of the planes,
Moving swiftly as brush burns.
To Poseidon I bow,
My fire is his and not the
Feeble bowman’s.”
Grains of dirt,
Fabric of the earth, oh peace.
Dost thou bring me to ground,
My body to rest beneath the shrubs,
Blossoms of the planes to adorn my tomb?
Dost my prostrate form go thither,
Bowed down in torment rather than worship?
“No I can’t be fire,
I am consumed, my body scorches,
Please no, I am not flame,
Yet my body burns.”
I can feel it engulfing my limbs,
This must be death,
The cold hand of Hades reaches for
My very heart,
But it is not chilled and stirs a furnace,
Every bone and muscle and sinew
Grinding, agony hath me now.
“Ha! mind as frail as body,
But no more.
I am not fooled nor is
My lifeline cut.
From the sparks of a soul
Kindled a flame.
I am the flame burning in
The winds of renewal, of change,
The stallion of brazen coat
And thundering hooves.”
I can sense it,
The wind moves
Through my very skin,
Inducing a flame that is not fire,
But change, yet agony it burns.
Mane and tail where there was none before,
Fingers becoming less agile–
Hooves shod in horn,
Forelock rustling in the breeze,
And onto strong flanks, I place my weight,
My long face resting calmly
Upon a noble arch.
“Oh, help me, I am alone,
In this world, in this foreign land and foreign body,
I have not died, but changed,
Why did this happen?
Is there no explanation?
Am I to forever reside
In this accursed and soulless animal?”
I snort and breath in
The scents of the planes.
“I am fire!”
Each and every scent is unique,
A crystalline jewel of remarkable clarity.
“No, I am not flame!”
I swish my whisking tail.
“I am fire.”
