"The paper burns, but the words fly away." -Akiba Ben Joseph
Like a white pidgeon it flutters
down, unsuspecting, to his hands.
A sigh it utters,
hanging open like a snowy feather,
words painted thereon.
In all the rush and fervor he mutters,
but an instant to read the line
from what he dragged out of the gutters.
Its fellows bombard his shoulders,
arms, upturned face, and body.
The line he read in wonder
blazed in his mind, stamped there
with fiery steel.
With the tinderbox he blunders,
finally striking a lucky blow.
Outside it thunders.
He's set it successfully now.
The white pidgeon alights,
screeching betrayal, and with a bow
respectful of its splendor,
he leavces.
Red blossoms appear and flow
over everything, a rippling, creackling, tide.
He stands aloof and watches what he started glow
and vanish.
