You carry fire
as if it answers only to you,
as if blindness
were proof of faith.

But I have seen torches held
by steadier hands
that lit the path
without naming the destination.

Tell me
when did faith become so brittle
that it must break the tongue
that questions it?

You speak of purity,
of flames that cleanse
yet every pyre I've known
needed a story first.

And stories, friend,
are not so easily purified
even when you would like
to put them to waste.

Some burn.
Some breathe.
Some refuse the blade
even when called heresy.

So keep your fire
if it must be kept.

I will stay
with what still moves
before it is named
and after it survives.

I do not follow roads
that sanctify ruin
and call it grace.

If there is fire
it will be mine to carry,
not yours to name.

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Sarapin, in the year 1003 AF.