Share of Innocence

There are fires in Hell so intense that even burning is forbidden,

-perhaps the price of the savagery of possession is paid this way-

Every truth bears upon it an ornament called goodness,

If it is a lie, it has the taste of a crow's carrion., a wind blowing from evil.

On the lute of every melancholy man,

there is surely a woman seated upon the strings.

Every freshness transferred to the soul eventually has its part trampled underfoot,

Every killing has its own accent, distant from speech.

The delicate patience of loneliness, embroidered like a pattern,

and every the folk song, every stage, every boundary,

every death's has an end.

The milk tasted for the last time,

the loves whose end is known...

The red streaks in the sky have an end too:

Only the freedom of the unknown remains.

If your hand is inside a great black hole,

whose contents you do not know;

that the road's of yours, yet to be exited,

has a thorn, a pull, and a secret.

-Do not approach the fire!-

You know that every handprint is distinct and a gift;

for each finger holds

the power to shatter the birdcage.

-Approach the cage.-

If order in the forest is upheld by the deer;

then surely the deer,

has its place in Paradise.